My Daddy Tribute: G is for Gardening

My father was known as an artist both on the canvas and in his own yard. He had a talent for gardening that was unmatched. Sure, he would do traditional styles of gardening, but he had his own passion for design. He loved curves and lots of color. He made sure he had perennials that would pop up at different times through the entire growing season. And he always accented with tons of annuals.

Another thing he loved in his gardens were rocks. When I was a kid, there was a terraced bed that I called my "basement." Rocks lined both "stories" of the basement. Flat rocks made up the steps and path that wound through it. He continued this kind of tradition at all of the places he and my mother lived. I remember Mom took over the mowing when Dad's asthma and emphysema became too much for him to handle doing it. She would always curse going around those curves and rocks, but she loved how they all looked.

Dad also would add other things to his garden. He usually had some kind of birdbath and birdfeeders in his yard, because he also liked to birdwatch. Every once in a while, he would purchase some kind of a random piece or yard ornament to include.

Two of my favorites were a rock and a statue. Because my parents had two girls, they ended up with two of those little girl statues. I saved mine, but it is being held for me back home right now. My other favorite was a rock that we bought for him one year for Christmas. It says, "Grow Damnit." It is now in my own yard, awaiting a place of honor.

A lot of my father's gardening rubbed off on me. I love to spend time digging in the dirt. I have dabbled in doing gardening and yard work for other people for summer work. I have my own eclectic style of gardening that doesn't follow traditional rules of layout. I collect rocks to add to my gardens, whether they are from going to the beach or from my many hikes.

When I put in my large perennial bed at this house, my father was here to help me with it. I had reinjured an old break in my leg above my ankle a few days after I had dug up the area. My mom had come out to take care of me for that week and then went back to get Dad for a preplanned visit. While I scooted around on my butt, he helped me to fill in the bed, terrace the steps, and to lay the path and rock border. We spent a week getting it together and it has been coming together nicely over the years. This is a picture of it in spring bloom in the summer of 2009.

That bench, the pathway, and the rocks along the top layer (flush with the sidewalk step) were all lovingly carted by my parents from my place in Ohio. I couldn't bear to leave them behind when I moved. And they fit in perfectly with this garden.

Dad helped me to pick out some of the plants, including the Japanese maple. I did the rest. Over the years I have been adding more bulbs. I have neglected it somewhat these past couple of summers. In 2010 I had to have surgery and last year, well, I didn't feel like it after Dad died. But this year I am slowly bringing it back to life again.

I love to take pictures of the flowers and the garden. I post them on Facebook. One of Dad's favorite things was to check out my daily postings. He would print out his favorites with the intention of possibly painting their picture one day.

Last year when I finally got home from the ordeal, my rose bushes were in bloom like I had never seen before. I like to think that my father had a hand in that somehow.

Some day, I will have to leave this house, to move on to bigger and brighter things. It is going to be awful to leave behind the garden that we built together. But I will always cherish the memories.

The Spring Break Curse

I am already a little behind on my A to Z Challenge posts. Such is the curse of being a full-time teacher who went nuts and entered 8 blogs without scheduling posts in advance! Lol. I also had a friend come into town, whom I haven't seen in 16 years. And I'm just tired. It happens. But I just needed to get this out of my system, so here is an interruption.

Today is my first full day of Spring Break. Once upon a time this meant a week of fun and relaxation. This year, I am having a bit of a hard time on this first morning. While the dates are not exact, the timing is still a big anniversary. See, the Thursday before Spring Break last year was when my father was taken by ambulance to the hospital. Friday was the last time I spoke to him on the phone. And Saturday was when he went unconscious. The actual dates are still a week off, but knowing that my Spring Break is here again just makes me sad and it hurts. I should be going home. I should be preparing to spend time with family and friends "back West." But it isn't in the cards this year. And this begins the final two months that complete my first year without my father. It isn't going to be easy, but I know I can do it.

My boss jokingly banned me from going home for Spring Break a few years ago. I went home on a similar kind of break layout. We were off on Good Friday, through the week following Easter. Only that year, the Monday after Easter, my great uncle was moved to Hospice. I was the one who had to tell my grandmother that her little brother was dying. I spent that entire Spring Break visiting Hospice, bringing food and support to Uncle Carl's family. I got to know relatives I had never met before. I was grateful to finally spend some time with my great uncle, whom I never got to know well, due to circumstances out of my control. And my very being was forever changed. He died in the wee hours of the following Sunday morning. I had to take that Monday off so that I could drive back to New York. I was too upset to do so on Sunday. That day was hell in my classroom, because my assistant had already taken that day off as a travel day from her vacation.

Twice when I had preplanned trips home in the month of September, I had loved ones die. The one year, it was my mentor, Sister Anthonita Porta, who was the Montessori Guru of our time. She was like Maria Montessori reincarnate and had taught me so much in our years of interaction. The other time it was my grandmother. She died the morning that I was planning on going home, anyway, to go to the Michigan-Bowling Green game. So now, there is a bad running joke that I don't dare go home for breaks, because you never know who is going to die. At the same time, I say at least people are courteous enough to do it while I am already there, so I don't have to make a special trip?

(Remember, I must treat sad situations with an element of humor, even though it can seem distasteful at times. Otherwise, I would never make it through life!)

All of this sadness aside, I do plan to have some fun over break. The weather is chilly, yet nice outside. The sun is shining. I can finally work on cleaning out my yard. I want to start taking longer walks, as my leg continues to heal. I need to be back into full-blown hiking shape by the time summer hits! And because The Man and I are both broke as a joke, we are going to find some more free things to do in this city and nearby areas. It is always a good thing to do. And then I can write about some of them. I plan on lots of reading and writing, too, over this break.

Celebrate Each Day

There was just a beautiful story on the Today Show about a family whose baby only lived for 99 days. The fact that he was even born at all was a complete miracle. I cannot remember the name of the genetic disorder that he had, but children with that disorder often don't even make it to birth. If they do survive until birth, they usually die within 9 days. This child beat that eleven times over.

Instead of being upset and mourning the loss of their baby, his parents decided to celebrate each day of his life. They maintained a blog (I believe called "Dear Eliot") and had a birthday party for him every day. Bigger to-do's were saved for the bigger milestones of his life, as in the achievement of each month.

Eliot was forced to have tubes for oxygen and feeding, and after he turned three months old, they were taking out. Of course, just over a week later, he passed away. But the fact that he was able to have the tubes taken out was yet another miracle.

At his funeral, his family and friends let 99 balloons go -- one for each day of his life.

It was a beautiful story, that of course got this emotional Cancer going this morning. But it's just another reminder that you need to cherish each day as it comes. Each day that you wake up breathing is a gift, no matter how bad things seem at the time.

I especially try to hold onto that every day that I work this summer. On one of my Facebook status updates one day, someone commented on how lucky I was that my work was to create pots and plant for other people. I have held onto that every day. So even when I get bug bites, and my muscles get sore, and people occasionally ask for ridiculous tasks to be done, I am so grateful that I get to spend 3-plus months of the year working in the Great Outdoors. I get daily fresh air, exercise, and get to bask in the glorious sunshine as I help to maintain a beautiful Earth.