A Love Letter on Gardening

Tucked into the recesses of my closet sit two paper handled gift bags. They hold the cards and letters written to me, by my mother, over the course of my grown up life. Many of the cards look like they were chosen for a child, with their innocent images and envelopes smothered with stickers, but they were written for me...the adult little girl... who never stopped wanting or needing the words of  love, encouragement, and reassurance offered by a caring, insightful mother.

 

When I was in my late twenties, reeling from a divorce that had left me broken hearted and disillusioned, my mother wrote "Contentment Gardening & Happiness Butterflies." It was the first and only time one of her letters came with a title...instead of a greeting. Handwritten and over ten pages in length, it was a labor of love and a true testament to the bond we shared. It redirected my outlook, all those years ago, and it continues to serve as a source of inspiration... to this day.

 

On Mother's Day...in honor of my mom (Mickey) as well as moms everywhere and the transformative role they play in our lives...I'd like to share parts of this heartfelt letter.

 

 

 Contentment Gardening & Happiness Butterflies

 

  "Butterfly is a good metaphor for happiness, because if you chase happiness too hard, it eludes you and if you ever try and hold on to it, you destroy it. The high of happiness is indeed like a butterfly - something beautiful and delightful to behold - something you always remember. Everyone chases the happiness butterflies but all this futile chasing wears people out - makes some disillusioned and frustrates others - because they are trying to capture something that can't be captured.

 

But there is a way to glimpse and enjoy the butterflies. (I didn't say... "all of the time" or "catch" or "put in a bottle." ) The trick is to make a garden of contentment to lure the butterflies in. You see you can control your garden of contentment to a much greater degree than you can control the butterflies of happiness. Oh sure, sometimes you get flooded out and there are weeds of character to be gotten rid of and there are garden pests to spray for. However, if you can decide what you want in your garden and you work and think and study - you can have a pretty nice garden for yourself. You've learned a lot about gardening already. Your Daddy and I taught you a lot about gardening when you were little. We were good gardeners and there were lots of real butterflies that came to our garden. Because you were  young, you probably thought they belonged to you and you would just naturally always have a good supply.

 

As you grew, things continued to bloom in your garden and the happiness butterflies flitted round and round. The day D came into your life - with him came the most beautiful butterflies in all the world. They were the first love butterflies - the butterflies of sheer delight. They seem hearty at first but they need great tending and they often don't live long. D wasn't much for gardening but when your Daddy wasn't there, any longer, to help us garden - D pitched in and gave us a hand. We gardened together but we should have noticed the butterflies were fewer and fewer. Some never came back after your Daddy passed away and I think you panicked and started to try and catch the butterflies. And, of course, the harder you tried, the more you drove them out of your garden. When D left,  your garden of contentment turned brown overnight. The climate was so bad. The winds of depression blew out any odd butterfly that might have been in the area and the rains of tears beat on the character flowers. Worse than the destruction was a terrible weed that ran like a choking ground cover over everything. It was the self doubt you felt and the blame you placed on yourself.

 

You'd never really gardened alone before - but you decided to try it. And though it was a lot of work and growing conditions still weren't good - you got your garden started again. And your garden is doing fine. The intelligence and character flowers are especially healthy. You always worked hard to cultivate them. And as a result - you've always enjoyed the happiness butterflies of your teaching job. You need to sow a few seeds of thrift and there's a few cut worms of self-pity that you need to spray for. But on the whole things are flourishing. 

 

Mainly, you need two things. The first is patience. You tend to want everything to grow and bloom overnight. And if it doesn't, you pull everything up and start over. Well, that isn't necessary. Try pinching off and pruning back. And wait...wait just a little longer. Growing and flowering takes time. And you need to have faith. Faith in yourself. Look at your successful crops - not at your failures. And remember that while some of the blame for crop failure lies with the gardener - not all does. There are things that you can't control. Have faith in the miracle of the growing season. As bad as the weather gets and as dark as the night is - you'll always have one more growing season...one more chance... as long as you'll take it.

 

So, continue being a determined gardener and one day, when you're sitting in your garden just appreciating all that surrounds you - the butterflies will come and in a goodly number. And no one will be happier for you, than me, because ... you see, the happiness butterflies in my garden are definitely because of you.

 

I love you,

Momie"

 

                                                                                       

 

                                                                                                   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Write a Letter...It's Your Chance to Touch the Future

One of my most treasured keepsakes is a letter that  my Grandmother received from her brother, in 1942, while he was serving in the United States Army. It's just a short, single-sided note commenting on the weather in Virginia and how he feared his little hometown wouldn't be the same when he returned. But that brief note, with a little background on the writer's life, gives me a connection with him I might have otherwise missed.
 

 

 

Sadly, I never met my Grandmother Mary (my mother's mother) or her brother (my mother's Uncle Grant) as they both had passed away before I was born. Growing up, I heard many stories about my Grandmother, saw her pictures, and evidenced a bit of  her creativity in the numerous embroidered tea-towels and pillow cases around our home. Over the years, I felt like I had come to know quite a bit about this happy, loving woman who delighted in her family, and like me, her elementary school students.

"Uncle Grant" was my mother's favorite uncle and she had fond stories of  their times together when she was a child. I still have a small bookcase that he built for her when she was a child...a creation undoubtedly motivated by more than his love of wood working. But the stories of Uncle Grant were typically tinged with a bit of sadness. My mother had always said the Uncle Grant was never really the same after the war. I'm sure no one is really the same after a war but the fact that he became somewhat defined by that has always haunted me.





Now, as I hold his letter in my hands, looking at his neatly penciled sentences, I can't help but wonder if his concerns about his hometown being different upon his return weren't reflections of his own personal changes. Was he a new or seasoned soldier, at this point? I don't even know. All I really know is that I am holding a letter that was personal correspondence between two people who were family. Two people who had their own personal struggles...as we all do. Two people who never had a chance to love me, but because of stories and pictures, I have loved for the majority of my life. If only they would have known that their memory, their legacy, would live on for decades to come - celebrated by a girl they never knew.





Our lives are short and, I suspicion, too often end with words unsaid. I know the handwritten letter will never replace the efficiency of the technological e-mail or text. It shouldn't. But maybe it's time for the hand-written letter to be revived, not simply as a way to say "hello" but as a way to share a bit of ourselves for those who will go ahead of us.  It might be our children or a young friend or perhaps someone we don't even yet know who will one day hope to better understand a person they have come to love.

"Just Pretend"

I have always claimed that my mother gave me my roots and my father....my wings. Consistently loving and supportive, my mother would never have discouraged me from doing or trying anything but she would have always been practical and honest about the cost or effort required. Spend a modicum of your time with your head in the clouds, she would have advised. My father, on the other hand, although every bit as honest, was more of a dreamer and  approached things from a slightly different angle. It was my parents' differences, as well as their similarities, that made our home such a wonderful place for me to learn and grow. On this Father's Day, I'm reminiscing about one of  his unique life lessons and remembering just how much love always strung between us.

My dad's retirement from the Air Force, and his subsequent job in Aerospace, led us, in the late 1960s, to sunny California. Finding a new home, acclimating to the amazing weather and our new civilian life was easy. But, for me, fitting in mid-year to a new junior high school, took a little more effort. One night, as we sat at the dining table, sharing our days, I burst out with the confession..."I wish I had a boyfriend."

 I've always wondered if my parents had some sort of a signal, between the two of them, communicating who was going to take the lead with a discussion that concerned me. Unfortunately, I never asked either one of them, but whatever the procedure, my father took the lead with this discussion. "How do you think your days would be different, if you had a boyfriend?" he asked.

Even though I was never going to be able to date at age twelve, my father must have decided that understanding why I thought my life would be improved, with a boyfriend, would help him comfort me. Or maybe he wanted me to better understand my own feelings. Whatever his motivations, he recognized I'd need to examine my school day...the only consistent place I had interactions with boys... to gain any insights.

I'd seen boys open lockers, for their girl friends, and carry their books, at school. I could open my locker and handle my own books. A boyfriend certainly wasn't a requirement to attend the after school dances held in the crepe-paper and balloon decorated cafeteria. I had seen couples, although  few in number, sitting by themselves at lunch. But, I loved those times, at the long lunch tables, where the girls all crammed together, to chat and giggle. I didn't think I wanted to trade that for a romantic couple's lunch. There was something that I longed for but it was hard to identify let alone put into words.

 My father continued to casually ask questions about my days. That's when I remembered one particular warm afternoon, when all of the girls from 4th period PE were headed to the baseball field. The boys, already suited up, were doing drills on the basketball courts. As we sprinted by, one of the boys yelled out the name of one of the girls, in our class. It was a simple acknowledgement...no embarrassing whistles or unsavory comments. She waved and flashed him a big smile as we continued on our trek towards the backstop. As we lined up to practice hitting balls, I remember someone reminding her that "he" would be watching.

And there it was...so simple and yet so complicated!  I really didn't want anyone watching me hit the ball...or more accurately attempting to hit the ball. I didn't want anyone taking me away from my friends at lunch. But there was something wonderful about knowing that someone was thinking about you. There was something magical about knowing you were special enough, to someone, that they were quite aware of your presence. In fact, they were looking for you. My father, being poignantly aware of how much I wanted to feel a part of my new school and my new classmates,  had led me to realize that, at this stage of my life,  it was truly a feeling that I longed for more than an actual boyfriend. Although, he never showed it, I'm sure he was greatly relieved.

After all that soul searching, what was my father's recommendation? "Just pretend that you have a boyfriend," he casually suggested. Was he kidding??  Did he have any idea what it would take to pull off a lie as big and involved as that one?  He proceeded to explain that I should not lie...I would not tell anyone else that I had a boyfriend. I would be pretending to myself.  I would try to imagine how it would feel, to me, inside my heart.  I wasn't exactly sure how I would do that but our discussion  made me think of a time, years earlier, when I was waiting to take my swimming test. Standing at the edge of the pool, feeling nervous and alone, it helped to know that my parents were sitting in those stands, thinking about me. I couldn't even see them and yet, I knew, in my heart that they were there...believing in me...loving me. It was truly that feeling that gave me the strength to dive into that water and complete my test.

Was he encouraging me to be delusional? I think it was more about learning to "fake it till you make it." Those parental lessons that continue to light our paths, despite the passing years, are more than  priceless memories. Isn't it every parent's dream to give their children lessons that serve them for a lifetime?  I barely remember pretending to have a boyfriend but I clearly remember pretending to have the confidence of a seasoned classroom teacher, as I stood at age 22, in front of my first audience of parents ready to share my plans for their child's second grade year. And more recently, as a beginning blogger, I pretended to already have readers that giggled or smiled at the stories of my childhood and my friendships that I posted. I so wanted to share those stories but it took that bit of pretending before I could take the plunge and push the publish button.

I was lucky to have a father who was so willing to be engaged  with every aspect of my young life. He was there when I was ready to learn how to ride a bike and drive a car and he remained equally as involved when my interests turned to boys and prom dresses. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't miss him and recognize the impact he had on my life simply  because he loved me so much.

 

A Lesson from Grandpa

My mother cranked down the
window, in the back seat of the old car,
and casually tossed her gum
wrapper into the breeze.
Moments later, the car was being

 guided to the side of the road and
my mother directed to retrieve her trash.

 

"Oh Daddy," my mother whined,
 "it's just a little piece of paper."
 

"The countryside
will soon be filled with trash," my
grandfather warned, "if everyone
tosses  little pieces of paper
 out of the window."

It was the early 1930s. 
My mother was about six years old.

 

 My parents raised me much the way my mother's parents had raised her... a rare spanking, the occasional restriction, and what seemed like, endless lessons about  personal and social responsibility. It was never about other's opinions of my actions ....it was always about how my actions would affect them. There were times when a good spanking would have been easier.

 I guess it was only a matter of time before I began to contemplate the amount of paper my seemingly harmless letter writing resolution could generate. I wasn't about to abandon my resolution because of a concern over adding to the landfill, but I knew I needed to give this issue some thought.

My solution? A sweet, sentimental one that will, understandably, sound weird to some people.  If you knew my mom, you'd understand. Letter writing was such a regular part of my mom's life that she had drawers of stationary and note cards. I've saved a lot of them...tucked  into a box...stored away...thinking someday it would be easier to toss them out. I didn't think I'd ever write enough letters to use them up. Now, I just might.

Just one of my possible note card and stationery choices for January.

 

 

 

 

 







 



 








 

 

 

 

 



 



 



The Tripod is Up....Let Thanksgiving Begin!

Thanksgiving morning always started early and with a bit of frenzy, at our house. I was allowed to sleep in but my mother actually set an alarm so she could get up and start the preparations. My father, usually a late-sleeper, was anxious to join my mom and get the day started. Thanksgiving was his favorite day of the year.

My mother would have completed some of the preparations earlier that week. The silver would be shined and wrapped in plastic so it wouldn't tarnish before the big day. The embroidered linen tablecloth would have been pressed but not yet on the table.  A simple centerpiece, with fresh flowers, fall leaves, and possibly a twig or two would be sitting in a bowl waiting for its debut. For my mother, centerpieces were no big deal. I typically take photos of the centerpieces I create. Not because they are amazing but because I'm never sure I'll ever be able to recreate them. My mother never recreated a centerpiece.

While my mother busied herself in the kitchen, my father gathered the movie camera, film, cables, and found the perfect location for the tripod.   He'd always request that we take a trial walk down the hall and into the dining room, a rehearsal of sorts, so he could be sure the tripod was at the perfect angle.

My mom and I would oblige, giggling as he pretended to take up the role of tyrannical movie director. Never mind that he would typically still be in his pajamas, we knew how much he loved Thanksgiving, his camera, and the two of us!  Then, once the turkey had been basted for the final time and the tripod was in place, it was time to change into our "finery", as my mother would say, and start the festivities.

Being a military family meant we spent most of our holidays away from extended family. People have often said, "Your parents went to all of that work, just for the three of you?"  But each holiday, each celebration was still a big deal because "we" were a big deal. My parents knew that family was more about love than numbers. For that....I'll always be thankful!

Happy Thanksgiving!!