Tag Archives: special

Heaven’s Gardener

Sometimes, something special happens.  Well, I suppose something special happens more often than we realize, but sometimes we notice. I am sitting by the pool, gazing at clouds that look like they’ve been sponge painted across the sky…only God could do that.  And I think of things… 

A year ago May, my aunt passed away.  She was an unusual person.  She was generous, loyal, hard working, committed to family.  An excellent gardener and cook, and an expert knitter. She was also opinionated, often abrasive, argumentative, stubborn, and basically difficult.  A vulnerable know-it-all with fragile self-esteem.  She was very bright, a master with finance, yet consistently chose relationships with men who could only offer heartache.  She claimed to not be religious, though we found bibles and religious articles in every room of her home.  She had many talents, and many problems.  She was a contradiction, and she was ours. 

I could fill a book with anecdotes, some pretty funny in retrospect.  But this is about something special. 

Niki was not given to outward displays of affection.  When we were children, our grandparents (her parents) would warmly hug and kiss us goodbye.  Niki would coolly turn a cheek.  As adults we would literally have to grab her and force a hug upon her.  I don’t think she minded, she just didn’t feel comfortable being the hugger.  Yet, she sent cards for every occasion, including Easter, Halloween, and Valentine’s, always adorned with cute little stickers, and simply signed “Love, Aunt Niki.”  No one else ever mailed me a valentine.  There were no valentines in the mail this year.  I almost expected one. 

In her beautiful Berkeley hills garden was a painted wooden sign that read “Niki’s Garden.”  I took it home and put it in our front garden on one side of the walkway by the porch.  Though our garden isn’t as impressive, I thought she would like us to plant it anew among growing things.  I’m not a gardener at all.  My thumbs are black right to the bone.  But this past November, I planted bulbs.  I always meant to every fall, however it seemed I never got around to it.  Niki had planted them for us once or twice in the past, and we would have beautiful tulips in the spring.  She always planted hundreds in her own garden.  So this past fall, among others, I planted white and yellow narcissus in front of her sign, as a sort of tribute. 

All of the bulbs sprouted, but the white narcissus in front of her sign outgrew all at a furious pace.  By January, they were in full bloom, while all the other bulb plants were only a few inches high, nowhere near blooming.  They made me smile each time I passed.  Perhaps these bloom early.  I don’t know.  But I liked to think that Niki made them bloom. 

Scattered around the garden, the crocus and tulips each took their turns.  Of the yellow narcissus, half were planted by Niki’s sign and half a few feet away where they had the same amount of sunlight, same drainage, same exposure to rain.  As the white waned, the yellow sprang to life in front of the sign.  The other half of the yellow bulbs bloomed weeks later.  

Our front garden faces north.  It gets afternoon sun, but very close to the house it stays shaded.  Thus the closest beds all point their faces toward the road, tendrils stretching toward the sunlight. 

Except this once.  

As the spring flowers inevitably faded away, a grey-green plant called a Dusty Miller sent a large shoot away from the sunlight and back toward the house.  The rest of the plant reached for the source of sunlight, but this one shoot grew backward, about 18 inches back into the shade until it had reached Niki’s sign, where it wrapped itself around the wooden stake, and curled upward toward the painted letters where the leaves spread out in a graceful fan around the edge of the board. 

It is summer now.  On each side of the walkway, near the porch, the hydrangeas are in bloom.  My husband had cut them back some time ago, and they started the season unequally.  One was small and stunted.  The other was larger, strong and healthy, with large deep green leaves, and tiny buds that would become colossal pink blooms.  Fast forward to the present.  The plant that started stronger looks healthy, with two big beautiful blooms.  The runt is now enormous, with ten big blooms, and buds hinting of color to come.  I keep straightening the sign next to it, and each time I pass by, I find it gently leaning toward the plants that grow in profusion before it. 

Is there a logical explanation?  Possibly, maybe even probably.  Perhaps for some reason the soil on one side of the walk is richer this year.  Perhaps the drainage is better even though it doesn’t appear to be so, or the sprinklers are more accurately aligned.  Perhaps the sign has just come loose in the soil.  Or perhaps from God’s beautiful garden, a soul who loved deeply but could only show it indirectly, visited mine. 

Each time I pass through the front door, I look closely at our garden, admiring, and looking for anything extraordinary.  Because sometimes, something special happens.  Sometimes we  notice.

Back to School

At 42 years of age, I am long out of elementary school.  But with just a thought I can call up the butterflies launched into flight each year in recognition of the first day of school.  I grew up here in Walnut Creek, and Walnut Acres was my school.  The weeks before school was to begin, the excitement began to build.  My mother would take my sister and me shopping for new clothes.  We would get five or six new dresses (girls were not allowed to wear pants to school).    We each got a new package of pretty colored underwear and a new pack of white undershirts with little bows sewed onto the bodice.   My mother would take me to the Junior Bootery, the only store that carried wide width shoes for my chubby little feet, and I would get one pair of school shoes to last the whole year. 

Class assignments were mailed in August, and every day I would ask if mine had come yet.  There was some anxiety associated with this, anticipating the unknown.  I can still remember every teacher, from Mrs. Anderson in kindergarten to Mrs. Templeton in 6th grade.  Back in those days elementary school was K through 6.  As soon as I knew what teacher I was assigned, I would call my friend Christy to see who she had.  My mother would check with Mrs. Seamount across the street to see which class her son Brian was in.  The last week of the summer, we would go to the school to find my new classroom.  Then my mother would take me back to the entrance of the school, and have me find the classroom again on my own.  I would try to peak in the windows, and gaze at the door.  What would it be like?  Would I have any friends in my class?  Was the teacher nice? 

The day before the big event, I would pick out my first day outfit.  Everything would be laid out, waiting.  I had a new book bag, paper, pencils, and erasers all ready to go.  And of course, a special new lunch box.  One year I had a Monkees lunchbox.  Another year, we bought a plain brown vinyl lunch pail with a zippered closure, and my mother put violet appliqués all over it.  It was beautiful.  Fresh from the bath, my damp hair neatly braided, I got to select a new pair of undies, and put on one of my new white undershirts to wear to bed.  It would still be hot in September and we didn’t have air conditioning, so the window was open.  I could hear the crickets.  It wouldn’t be quite dark yet, and Mommy would let us color in bed for a few minutes.  But I could never focus on my coloring book.  My heart would beat a little faster than normal, and I would feel funny in my tummy.  Surely I could never sleep.  

And here I am, years later, graying hair and all, still just as excited.  Only this time, it is my children who are going to school.   The routine has changed some since I was a child.  My children get many new outfits.  They get new shoes, but I do not expect them to last the whole school year.  Girls and boys can both wear shorts to school.  Book bags have been replaced with backpacks.  But still, it is a thrill to pick just the right backpack.  Should it be Hello Kitty or Barbie?  Ninja Turtles or Scooby Doo?  And of course a new lunchbox, in the same theme. 

First day outfits are still carefully selected and laid out for the next day.  Flowered undies, Scooby Doo briefs, are tugged out of plastic packages.  Each child has a big bag of school supplies, as requested on the list from the school.  Clean and smelling of baby shampoo, they climb into bed.  A book or a video is allowed for just a little bit, because it is so hard to go to sleep this night! 

The morning of the first day of school is the only day of the year I don’t have to take a steam shovel to get my daughter out of bed.  She is up before I am, gets dressed without a single nag, and is waiting at the door for me.  The rest of the year we barely make it to school on time, even though we live just down the street, but this one day she is ready to go and we are early.   I pull all three kids out to the front porch, and take our traditional “First Day of School” picture.  Happy scrubbed faces, new outfits and shoes, still stiff backpacks and unscuffed lunchboxes.  They are precious. 

And I am excited.  Excited to meet the new teachers, to see what kids are in their classes, to learn what field trips there will be and see the new books.  Excited because my children are excited.  Because I get to be part of these days they will remember for the rest of their lives.  It is a privilege.  

And each year, as I escort my little ones to their first day, I think “How lucky I am!”  This is the stuff life is made of.