Snow on the Sand

I have always loved the beach during the off-season. The serenity, the vastness, the ability to retrace my lone footprints in the sand. But I most love it when it snows, the white powder drifting across the sand, melting into the sea. It is so lovely, and, yet, seems so out of place; and it is this feeling of displacement that I so identify with. As a writer, I am a drifter. And, yes, the flower farm has grounded me, but I fly in my mind to so many different places each day, still searching for that definitive destination: home.

Happy Holidays

My father’s mother, my greatest inspiration, passed away on December 8th at age 91. So this season has been one of introspection and reflection for both Don and me. I’ve been thinking a lot about her life and what it was that made her so very special. She was definitely the hardest worker I have ever known, running a dairy farm with my grandfather, outside of Scranton, PA for over 50 years, and raising five boys. When times got hard, and with two of the boys headed off to college, she went to work at Bendix Aviation Plant, helping on the farm during the day, and then heading off to work the night shift at Bendix for 14 years. She only slept four hours a night during that time, but somehow she found the energy to do what had to be done. She always did.

But she also found time to play. She loved to dance and sing and play shuffleboard and pinochle. And Christmas was her very favorite time of the year. She was always a child at heart. The smallest of things gave her great pleasure, hand-picked wildflowers, a four-leaf clover. So many times I heard her say, “God has given us such a beautiful world,” and she would gaze out over the green of the fields, the majesty of the mountains, and say, “This is the most beautiful place in the world.” She didn’t understand the notion of travel as she was happiest on her porch with her beautiful view. It was this appreciation of place, of nature, and her love for family that made her so content. Though her life wasn’t an easy one, she accepted it as it was, and always kept her sense of humor. She loved to tell the story of when she was feeding the cows in the barn one evening with her youngest son, and one of the cows pulled her pants down. She was so mad, but the two of them got to laughing so hard they were crying.

At her funeral, my cousin read a list of lessons she had learned from my grandmother, beautiful lessons, the first being “Live life with an open heart.” This my grandmother always did, taking in many strays along the way, including me, when I was trying to find my way. I was living with her at the time when I met Don. And I remember her holding my face between her calloused hands when I said I thought I was in love. “Oh, Lisa,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.” I miss the feel of those hands, the warmth of her hugs, the encouragement she gave me, and her faith in me. But her spirit is still here. When I went out to make a snowman yesterday she was with me, laughing at the flower hat I put on its head, helping me find the right curved branch for its smile. She still reminds me to take time to nurture my inner child and to laugh through the tears, to appreciate what is in front of me each day. To be satisfied in the moment.

Uncluttering

Today I did something that I've been putting off for awhile: I gathered up the volumes of notepads and notecards and journals and audio tapes that constitute my novel in the making, and packed them all away in a huge plastic tub upstairs. This does not mean that I've given up on getting my novel published--I just needed to clear the way for the new. I am now working on a short story cycle set here on the eastern shore of Maryland, and every new project takes complete concentration. I realized I was still bogged down in my novel (no pun intended, as the Jersey bogs are part of my novel). Just as we clear the flower fields this time of year to make way for the new, my mind, and shelves, are now clear of past clutter. Onward.

Kitty in the Straw

It is that time of year to cover the flower beds, to put them to rest under a warm blanket of straw, which our black kitty Neil thinks is just for him. W call Neil "the butler" as he is always in the driveway, waiting to park your car, then greet you and give you the garden tour. He is also known as "walky talky," as he is our most vocal cat with a perfect "meeeeow."

Fall Harvest

The flowers are at their most vibrant this time of year--the deep velvet purple of the salvias, the dark wine burgundy of the dahlias, the pink, phosphorescent glow of the celosias. . . Part of the magnificent symphony of color before winter closes in. I could never live where this rush of color was always upon me, somewhere like Fiji or Mauii--it would spoil me, maybe even desensitize me. . . I love the seasons where there are turns and rests, much like a good story that fires, then smolders, stirring our blood, then cooling it down. . .

Going Native

This is a lovely flower, native to the eastern shore of MD: Eupatorium perfoliatum, 'Boneset'. We are making a transition to cultivated natives here on our flower farm, not that we have never used native flowers before. When we first started out, ten years ago, I would send Don out to gather flowers in abandoned fields, or along the roadside (where he had to explain what he was doing to more than one local cop--but, sir, I'm just trying to get lucky this eve. . .). I love native wildflowers--I always have. I spent the morning of our wedding in PA (20 years ago), picking my bridal bouquet on my grandparents' dairy farm. I have always picked flowers. And now that I grow flowers it makes such good sense to grow what is natural to the area, what the soil likes, the good bugs like, flowers that flourish in these hot, humid summers, and live in a symbiotic relationship. It connects with my writing as well, as I am working on a short story cycle set here on the eastern shore. As I dig deeper, I am finding what it is that makes the people of this area unique and what it is about them that keeps them happy and hardy and living together in a peaceful, and sometimes, not so peaceful way. . . but the natives are still here, still thriving. . .

Living Art

This is our garden truck that, you can see, hasn't been used in a while for gardening. When my husband brought it home many years ago, it was love at first sight for me. Look at that torquoise color! And such a big expressive face! What personality! And, now, in its ripe old age, it has become a veritable work of living Art--a lovely vine winding its way through the windows, over the roof and onto the back bed, an on-going creation that stands as a testament to time, transformation, and immortality.