The Gardens of My Life

  Blog #17

       Gardens were something special I was told.  They were something talked about for hours by people who had nothing more interesting to do or say.  They would cause normally fun-loving people to take slow walks in a backyard or slow walks in a park.  As a child, teen and young adult, I think that I loved flowers and gardens, but looking at them was boring! If someone said, “Let’s go look at my garden”, I would shutter, cringe and yawn.

       Grandma’s garden was a beautiful, colorful flower garden perfectly designed and perfectly tended.  My grandmother and grandfather did it together.  It had every flower imaginable and there I grew to love them.  It was there that I learned the names of flowers and their characteristics.  There were annuals and perennials all arranged the loveliest way possible. It was really fun to water the garden!

       My great aunt had a garden and hers was also stellar, designed well and perfectly tended.  Hers had the most beautiful prize-winning roses one could imagine.  The bird bath was the center of her back yard and it was surrounded by poppies, daisies and zinnias. She had fewer plants than Grandma did, but her flowers stood out more because there was more space between them. It was not so much a sea of color, but rather spots of intense beauty. My favorite part was swinging on the porch swing with my brother and sister as we looked at the garden

       My mother had a flower garden, too.  She did not get any help from my father on this, because of his work schedule, so her garden was not manicured at my grandmother’s and my great aunt’s. Her children helped only a little.  It was every bit as much a source of joy to my mother as a perfect garden world have been.  I know she had flowers that came from cuttings from her mother’s and aunt’s garden in it. Some lasted for years.  Mom’s garden was loved and treasured and was very beautiful, but it was not what you would call “manicured”.  It had a “wildness” to it.  Plants were overgrown and often would take over an area, because they were never pruned.  Other plants would die if it was a hot summer. Mom “sort of” planned her garden, but the carrying it out was sometimes difficult.

       My least favorite part of Mom’s garden was weeding.  At five cents a bushel basket for weeding, this was slave labor!  Her monetary rewards and motivation for weeding left a lot to be desired.  My favorite part of gardening was picking flowers and making beautiful bouquets for the dinner table.  Mom did not like to do that, so I got the job, which I dearly loved.

       All of my relatives planted some vegetables as well as massive amount of flowers.

 A summer without fresh tomatoes, cucumbers or lettuce was uncommon.  It was always a delight to see how big you could get something to grow.  Everything tasted better when it was home grown.  That I learned early in life!

       When I was a single adult, my roommate noticed that there was dirt around our patio.  She went out when I was at work and bought many packages of seeds.  Just by looking at the picture on the seed package, she chose the flowers she would plant.  Sun, partial sun, shade, partial shade; it was all the same to her.  Coming from the family I did, this was considered such a risky thing to do and I just knew it would be a mess.  She strung some string near where she would plant her morning glories and poured her twenty plus packages of seed in the narrow strip of dirt surrounding our small apartment patio. In a few weeks, there was evidence that something had actually been planted.

         Within a month, we were to begin to experience what I would never forget: a jaw-dropping, gorgeous, array of every colored flower in the rainbow.  Some no more than a few inches tall and some were at least ten feet tall.  Columbines, cosmos, daisies, morning glories, zinnias, hollyhocks, snapdragons, cone flowers, sunflowers were just few of what was planted.  I was not a participant in this very cool garden, but I did appreciate its beauty.

        Gardening, as a wife and mother at our home, has been a rocky journey for me.  I tried small amounts of gardening years ago, but had so much competition with the groundhogs, rabbits, squirrels and family obligations, I gave up. 

         Then, as my son got older, out of somewhere and nowhere, I found myself dreaming of a garden and planning it. Four summers ago, I decided to begin to make it happen.  I could not wait until I could afford all the fancy terracing and stone work I imagined, but I could afford raised beds and a few plants.  I wanted to have a rose garden with roses commemorating the lives of those family members who had died since my husband and I had married.  I wanted vegetables planted among many colorful flowers and I wanted a curved shape to the garden. There were to be herbs in this garden, too. Somehow it became a passion to make it beautiful.

         After one year of somewhat successful gardening at my home, the principal of the school where I teach asked me to coordinate a school garden at our inner city elementary school, which located in an urban food desert. I want the children to know that gardening is not boring. I know I would have liked gardening more as a young person, if I had been more actively involved. All the parts that I loved the most were found in the doing. I now have the unique opportunity to inspire children and their parents to garden for healthy eating, for the understanding of where food comes from, for discovery and learning, for appreciation of beauty and for JOY!

         I want the children to plant and water the garden!  I want them to “swing” in the garden and pick the flowers and the produce! I want the garden to be a special place for the children to share with their families and have fun. I want them to talk about their garden! I want them to be totally involved, so they will remember their special garden…at school!

        

Covered by Love

Blog #16

        Two weeks ago I received a bouquet of two dozen red roses from my husband.   They were so beautiful, catching my eye from the kitchen counter, upon my return home.  It was a Monday; not my birthday, not our anniversary, not Mother’s Day. 

        My first question when I walked in the door was “Whom are they for?”  My husband looked at me and said, “You!”   I was shocked.  For some reason,  I really did not think they were for me. Then, he told me the reason for the surprise. I was very grateful.

        I took the 24 roses and divided them into two bouquets.  I cut one dozen and put them on the dining room table in a crystal vase. The other dozen I kept with their original length in a yellow and red ceramic vase and put them on the kitchen counter.  Each bouquet lasted about six days.  They were exquisite in their beauty and scent.

        The roses were given to me to cheer me up after something that happened or to ask my forgiveness for something that my husband did. The amazing thing is that I, who can remember every other detail of the gift itself and the conversation surrounding it, cannot remember the offense, sorrow or disappointment that prompted the gift. This was only two weeks ago!

        “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” Love is a lovely thick quilt covering you on a cold day.  You get under it and it makes you feel so warm and toasty that you could easily forget how cold you were.  When you are covered with love, it is hard to remember your own offenses or the offenses of others.  You may call the roses a peace offering, a bribe, a pacifier or a token of concern; depending on the reason they were given. I call them a quilt.   

         

Where Have All the Positive Role Models Gone?

Blog #15 

         My heroines were always fictional characters, mostly from musicals.  Nellie Forbush from South Pacific, Marian the Librarian from The Music Man , and Maria in The Sound of Music (not to be confused with the real Maria Von Trapp) were the very essence of what a “happily ever after” gal like me valued and respected. The music and lyrics of these musicals reinforced the values that were emphasized.  The leading ladies all had strong convictions, were full of love and hope, and wanted to do the right thing at all costs.  They usually got their man and learned some great lessons in the end. 

         The movies made these ladies flawless and admirable.  The stories, usually, did not go much farther than the getting of the man.  (The exception to this was Maria, who helped her family get out of Austria and away from the Nazis.) We tend to think that when the movie is over, the story and the struggles are over, too.

         Impressionable teens, like I was when I saw these movies, think that when you get your man the story is over and your “happily ever after” begins.  You can take a break, when you get to that point, and sail on through life on your luxury cruise liner. Sadly, this is not reality! I think that what I learned from my saturation of these idyllic movies helped me to become who I am, however, for better or worse. I, like Knucklehead Nellie, can be “a cockeyed optimist”and that is not always good. 

         I notice in today's world that the airbrushing of faces is a common phenomenon on the screen and television. The producers try to perfect the person’s appearance, but have a lesser concern for the person's character.  Today’s movies show heroines who are  mixtures of positive and negative traits.  They are much more complex characters and they are so much harder to admire.  You may, sometimes, get a positive resolution to a movie's problem, but you do not get a positive role model or a heroine whose character you will remember or care to emulate.

         “Where have all the positive role models gone?” I ask. The answer is clear.  The heroines and heroes are precisely where they have always been.  They are the people you know, the people you love, the people who are mentioned quietly in small newspaper articles, the great people of history and the women and men of the Bible. Learning from these role models can help make you into a positive role model for others.  These are role models that are better than fiction and that can help you to truly find your "happily ever after".

Mrs. Dellenbaum

Blog #14

        She was the worst teacher I ever had. She was the best teacher I ever had. This is a true “Tale of Two Teachers” all rolled into one. 

        Mrs. Dellenbaum, my sixth grade teacher, had everyone read their creative stories to the class and would announce to everyone what the grade was.  It was definitely embarrassing to those who did not do well.  One day, Marla read her “F” paper to the class and we learned what a poor paper was like. Then to our surprise, the following day, Mrs. Dellenbaum made a grand apology to Marla and elevated the “F” to a “C”. She said that she realized it was not fair to give Marla an “F”, when that was all she was capable of.  I now wonder if Marla lived up to the teacher’s low expectation.  Most students would rather be thought to be lazy than stupid. I never forgot that example of what not to do, when I became a teacher.

       She loved IQ scores and labels.  When the scores came out in December, we had a not so private conference with the teacher about what we were expected to do in junior high, in high school and in life.  We could hear what was said about everyone in the class. How embarrassing!  It appeared that your future was sealed by the IQ pronouncement!  I was fortunate, because my IQ score went up 20 points since the last time I was tested and moved me into the rank of an “able learner”.  But I wasn’t able enough!

       When the end of the year came, I was moving across town to a new school, where none of my friends that I had had since kindergarten would be. At the same time, Karen, a brilliant student, was moving to the east coast.  I loved Mrs. Dellenbaum and told her I wanted to write to her every day (for the rest of my life).  I asked her if she would write back.  She said that she was only going to write to one person from our class that year and that would be Karen, because Karen was going to go somewhere in life and would be somebody really special.  After all, Karen had a genius IQ!

       Mrs. Dellenbaum was a super hero of a teacher. I was pretty sure she could fly. This very short, stout, sixty-five year old widow with olive skin and a tight, black-haired bun on top of her head was a powerful storyteller. She made even the most mundane things interesting.  We did more art projects that year than I had done in all my other elementary years combined.  We made batik, paper mache, clay projects and more. We decorated our room with our many creative masterpieces. Drama and French were part of what we did on a daily basis. Responsibility, teamwork and leadership were learned through community projects of all types. 

       We graded each other’s work and pushed ourselves to greater heights academically. She compelled us to excel and we, as a whole, responded. There was a lot of writing, a lot of speaking and  a lot of reading in her class. Learning was really fun!

       One day, after I had read a story I had written to the class and elaborated on my ideas, Mrs. Dellenbaum said, “I think you will be a good teacher one day, because you explain things so well.”  (She must not have thought that being a good teacher was “going somewhere in life.”)

        When I moved away, I longed to see her and missed her. I wondered if she ever thought about me.  I really had an ache in my heart for her. I really did not comprehend her faults or weaknesses until much later.  I thought Mrs. Dellenbaum was the world’s greatest teacher when I was eleven in the sixth grade and the thrill of learning and my own exciting future was unfolding before me. 

          

        

The First Time I Saw Paris

Blog #13

     My love of Paris began when I started studying French in sixth grade in a class on educational television called “French for Fun”.  I was immediately hooked and, then, began a lifetime love of anything French.  There was a cute little puppet named French Fry on the show who helped us practice “bon jour” and “au revoir”.  In eighth grade, I began studying French again and continued to read, write and speak French through high school.  We studied the culture and learned much about the country and, of course, its capital, Paris.  I also took French in college and made some friends who lived in Paris. In my sophomore year, I lived in “La Maison Française” where our goal was to speak French at all times. (I cannot say we always did that, but it was the goal.)  My dream for over ten years was to visit France, especially Paris.

      I was to have that opportunity.  My friend and I had arrived in Brussels, Belgium for a seven week European trip in the 1970’s. After visiting eight countries, we were on an overnight train from southwestern France to spend a week in Paris.  We were both very excited, but we were exhausted and were readily able to sleep on the train.

      On the train at sunrise, my eyes popped open and I pulled back the curtain to see where we were.  Out of that train window, I saw only one thing on the horizon that morning.  Against the bright pink and blue backdrop of the sky, I was overwhelmed by the grand, magnificent, enormous, Eiffel Tower.  It let me know we had arrived and that my greatest expectation would not be disappointed, though we were still many kilometers away. The tears just rolled down my cheeks.  What else could I do?  After all, Paris is the most beautiful city in the world and this was the first time I saw Paris!

    

Confessions of a Flower Stalker

Blog #12

        Flowers make me happy! I will go out of my way to get a view of flowers. Seeing them makes me marvel at the Creator! They are truly inspiring to me!

        I walk around a lake as a form of exercise. The other walkers are usually focused and often walk right past me, especially when I am by myself. They must think I am slow.

        Perhaps, I am not as fast as others, but, maybe, that is not the whole story.  This is the confession that I will make only to you, my readers or reader (Who knows how many people would bother to read this?).  I actually stop to look at flowers (and trees, too).  Yes, quirky as it may seem, I do just that! 

        I will move in close to a flower, my face being less than a foot away, and I gaze at it intently.  Then, holding the stem between my index and middle finger, so that the flower is sitting in my open palm, I bring it to my nose and smell taking a deep breath of the scent. With some flowers I touch the petals, too. I use as many senses as I can to enjoy its beauty. I would really be a mess if the flowers made sounds and tasted good, too. Sometimes the memory of the scent and vision of the radiance will be with me for days.

         How about you?  Are you a flower stalker, too?

I Love Words!

Blog #11

     

        I love words!  They are a powerful tool that can be used to educate, inspire, chasten, encourage and counsel.  Words help us clearly express thoughts and emotions. The Proverbs tell us that “Words fitly spoken are like apples of gold in pictures of silver”. I love words: the feelings and ideas behind them, the craft of choosing them and the good fruit that they can bear.  I want to share words with others.  I want to learn to create “apples of gold in pictures of silver”.     

      I love words!  I love their beauty, their power and their potential!  Words truly are powerful! Emily Dickinson wrote, “A word is dead when it is said, some say.  I say it just begins to live that day.”  (This must include written as well as spoken words!)  I want my words to bring joy and hope when they are spoken or written: when they begin to live.

      Besides being a sometimes soupy and sentimental person, I am a logophile!