Category Archives: In the Garden

A Yankee Transplant

06 Saturday Jun 2009

Posted by in In the Garden, Life at Home, Mesta Park

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The old stressed Magnolia outside my window is blooming profusely this summer, which is not a good sign.  Sensing its days are numbered, the Magnolia is reproducing many seeds, in hope that some will land on fertile ground.  I often wonder how old the Magnolia is.  Was it planted back in 1928, when the home’s first owners moved into what is now Mesta Park?  If so, my tree would be close to Daddy’s age. 

I’ve an interest in knowing more about Daddy’s early days as well.  But he has no interest in me knowing.  This Saturday and last, I invited Dad to confirm bits and pieces of his childhood told to me by his sister, my Aunt Carol.  He ignores me.  But later, when I wonder aloud a simple question about the actors on an old Andy Griffith show we are watching together, he has no trouble getting his point across.   Only the trivial is worthy of a response.  

So Daddy’s past appears irrevocably closed.  I will not attempt to cross back to the land of his childhood again.  But today, I learned that even our shared past is full of unknowns, because my point of view is different than Daddy’s.  This lesson was brought home by thumbing through a travel journal I made Daddy seven years ago, on the occasion of his seventy-second birthday. 

The journal records memories of a vacation we took eleven years ago — Daddy, Christi, Don and I– when we stayed seven days in Ireland and three days each in London and Paris.   I kept a contemporaeous journal of our travels and I think it was Christi who put the bug in my ear that Daddy might enjoy a copy of my memories for himself.  So it was Daddy’s copy of the travel journal I picked up this afternoon, in an effort to share memories with Daddy, even while Daddy was off on his own travels in the land of  nod.  

At the end of my words on Paris, I was surprised to run across an entry in Daddy’s own handwriting, that seven years ago, was still strong and legible, rather the faint hieroglyphics it has become today.  Daddy’s memories of Paris were different than mine, he wrote, probably because he was older than me.  For one, Daddy loved seeing the bird’s eye view of Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, as we circled the city in the air on our arrival into Paris.  And he also expressed thanks that Don was willing to climb 160 feet of stairs to the top of the Arc de Triumph, for he didn’t think he would ever forget seeing eleven roads converge into one.   Simple things became unforgettable for Daddy. 

And though not simple himself, Daddy too will be unforgettable.  Though the rich and lovely memories that I share with Daddy alone… as well as the dark secrets of the past that remain unknown by any save Daddy… will all die with Daddy’s death.   When that happens, a small part of me will die too, because Daddy’s life and mine are intertwined, and his passing will leave me with unfillable void.  

No so with the old Magnolia outside my window.  And while I mean no disrespect, when this old girl dies, I’ll just plant another tree.   And it will not be another Magnolia or any other southern tree.  Rather, if such a thing exists, perhaps a nice Yankee tree, in memory of Daddy, that like Daddy himself, will prove a strong transplant for Oklahoma.  

Steel Magnolia

13 Wednesday May 2009

Posted by in In the Garden, Mesta Park, Soul Care, The Great Outdoors

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With my husband out of town for what seems like forever, I’m reduced to keeping up with local weather forecasts on my own. 

So having done my homework before tuning in, I was surprised to be awakened at 2 a.m. last night by the far away sound of  thunder.  A silent minute later, deciding the thunder had been a vivid dream, I settled back into bed, to again hear what sounded like another rumble.  A strong Oklahoma wind, 40 mph whipping down the plain fast, soon had my old windows humming and vibrating.  

Then came the rain.  And memories of twenty years of  tropical storms I had experienced when living ten miles from the Texas coast were reawakened to rest along side me.  Remembering the damage of tropical winds, I half expected to wake up  a downed Magnolia tree in our backyard this morning.  Soggy soil and strong wind proved a deady combination for many huge Texas trees.  And our old Magnolia tree is not doing well. 

In the last  three year’s, our poor tree has been put through something akin to the tree world’s trials of Job.  Its first three bruisings came compliments of the Oklahoma weather rollercoaster.   Three yeasrs ago, our State was in the midst of a long drought.  As luck woud have it, the drought was broken briefly the day we moved in, by a  light Methodist sprinkle of water falling from the sky.  Though not a Baptist dunking, it did a fine job of baptizing us into our new life in Mesta Park.  

Our  first  summer proved a scorcher, with many broken record days of over 100 degree heat.   And our poor old Magnolia just suffered  since I didn’t know to  give it a slow and long weekly drink.  The following  summer we experienced a monsoon, when the entire month of June was one big rainy day.  Then six months later, we were crippled by freezing rain that ended up damaging and felling many old trees that in turn took out the neighborhood power lines.  I don’t think I’ll ever forget the arrival of the Oklahoma National Guard in front of our house, who chainsawed and stacked the remains of a fallen limb, that once reached across the street from a neighbor’s gorgeous American Elm.  The limb itself was large enough to completely cutoff traffic.  Our Magnolia lost a few limbs and more than a few branches and like the other trees of the neighborhood, has looked a little crippled ever since.

Then last summer, as if the Oklahoma weather hadn’t done enough to kick this old  tree around, we gave it another beating by beginning our backyard construction project, distrubing  the tree’s root system.  After the damage was done I learned that Magnolia’s, more than most, just hate to have their feet messed with.  But so far, it lives.

May and June brings a lot of leaf drop on Magnolia trees in Oklahoma.  And while everyday is a leaf drop sort of day for a Magnolia, the tree absolutley rains leaves four weeks a year, even without wind.  This past week I’ve collected a full grocery sack every day.   And the transformation has been incredible — two weeks ago our tree had so many off color leaves it looked sick with yellow fever, while today its mostly a waxy green shiny.  

Magnolia leaf drop, which leaves a tree a little naked and exposed, is nature’s way of preparing the tree for its season of blooms.  Beneath all those yellow leaves on my old tree, were creamy Magnolia blooms waiting for their moment in the sun.  And I absolutely love Magnolia blooms.  Even now, one is partially opened with a bee  circling it madly, but kept from its vocation by the still strong Oklahoma wind. 

I pray our tree will prove a survivor just like that one down the street at the Murrah Memorial.  Two more years may tell whether its out of the woods.  And in the meantime, I’ll just watch the blooms unfold and tend to the tree’s needs, as best as I can, as this old Job steels itself for another long hot summer.  And while the tree wrestles with God for new life, I’ll just pick up its old cast-offs, offer it long and slow refreshing summer drinks, and let it soak in some Epsom Salts over the winter. 

And  unlike Job’s friends, I’ll attend its wounds in silence.

The Garden Club

06 Wednesday May 2009

Posted by in In the Garden, Life at Home, Soul Care

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In the gentle rain of yesterday, I was in my sister’s cottage garden.  Laughing at ourselves for still playing in the mud at our age, we were digging up Fever Few, Larkspur and French Hollyhocks.  And in this morning’s soft mist, still dressed in my jammies and robe, I was out puttering in my own cottage garden, planting flowers — those from my sister’s as well as some delphinium bedding plants I grew from seed — and preparing other plants to give away to my sister and others.  Give and take is a way of life in the gardening world.

Before my sister called Sunday morning, I had planned to go set up the Master Gardener’s plant sale and take advantage of early bird shopping.  It’s the club’s biggest fundraiser of the year and the plants sold by gardeners are always different from what can be bought at local garden centers.   But when I heard from Christi that Daddy was not having a good week, I decided plant sales could wait.  This too was a form of give and take.

Of course, life is the biggest give and take of them all.  The Bible compares  mortals to the flowers of the field that flourish until the wind passes over them and then they are gone.  And the place knows them no more.  This last part always breaks my heart, as I know just how true it is.  Until a few months ago, I didn’t even know my Granny’s mother’s name.  And there are only a few left in the world who still do.  As Job said himself, ” The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away.”   

In many respects, dementia has already taken much of Daddy away.  But I am thankful Daddy still knows us when we walk through the door even though he can’t keep track of our comings and goings.  Real sweetly yesterday, in what’s left of his whispery voice, he struggled to ask me “Where did Christi go?”  With a gardener’s patience, I told him that Christi was at work, and reminded him of her work schedule.  Rather than shaking his head in acknowledgement, my response left Daddy a little confused.  Only a month ago, daddy knew this.  So is this too give and take? 

Today I was able to shop the dregs of the plant sale, picking up a few plants for my sister’s garden and mine.  I was also able to find a home for my remaining tomato seedlings that have grown strong and tall with the help of the Oklahoma wind.  I’m tickled my friend Wanda took the tomato plants and I know Christi will be happy to take in a few new plants as well.  Gardeners are happy no matter whether its give or take. 

Not so with the taking of human beings.  But perhaps I’ll take comfort else where.  I now recall one Gospel’s reurrection account where Mary Magdalene confused the risen Jesus with a gardener.  I like to think Mary wasn’t confused at all, just as I like to think that Jesus is the true master gardener, as he transplants people from one garden to the next.  After all, give and take is a way of life in the gardening world.