Pink House

Our house was painted pink in November. My husband was in Phoenix the week that the painter decided that it was our turn so I was left to my own devices. I remembered that the designers on "Curb Appeal" had recommended warm neutral tones, and I found a paint chip at Sherwin Williams named "artistic taupe." For the front door I chose plum, just because it was a nice color.

I sensed the painter did not like my choice. When he came to the house on the first day, he painted one shutter and called me outside to check. I thought it looked good, although somewhat pinkish against the orange brick. After he had painted the porch, the siding was like raspberry ice cream in the reflected light. I really warmed up to the tone. I asked the painter if he liked it. "It looks better than I thought it would."

After the painter left, I began to wonder if the neighbors to the East minded living next door to a pink house. When I saw them a few weeks later, I asked them what they thought. They hadn't noticed our house was any different. The neighbors to the West hate us so I didn't ask.

In the intervening weeks, I have come to love my pink and plum house. On a gray winter day, the porch is warm and inviting. The creamy pinks blend nicely with the rough grays of the roof, the stone path, and the trunks of oaks and maples. Now that the hellebores are blooming, the house is a perfect backdrop to my garden.

Papa's Garden

After my father died in October 2006, I made a garden in his memory but he would not have preferred the restful spot under the Japanese maple. He was a tomato and zucchini kind of gardener. He saw no use in his garden for flowers, or any ornamentals, for that matter. Trees were for shade. Even the tulip magnolia that shaded the dining room had been planted long before my parents purchased the house in 1974. My mother was lucky that her treasured mimosa had planted itself along the perimeter of the back yard.

My father's garden in Indianapolis had one piece of art -- St. Francis in a brown cloak, gazing sympathetically from atop a broken fountain. In North Carolina, the contemplation garden that I dedicated to my father has no garden art beyond a simple concrete bench. I find that I rarely sit on the bench. My gardening genes include the will to dig and plant, but not to relax or meditate.

My father was an engineer, who did all his own home repair. On Saturdays, he and my mother would walk around the neighborhood, stopping at garage sales to buy broken small appliances that he would jerry rig back into service. He could fix anything long enough to keep it operating another year. Several weeks after he died, furnaces and sump pumps had to be replaced in the family home, as well as in my sister's home across the street.

When I was 23, I rented my first apartment. My Dad made me a shelf for my living room with a built in grow-light. My houseplants thrived in the cool light and I displayed small polished stones and sea shells and photographs on the shelf. I have made several moves since then and no longer have the shelf. I wish I still did.

Bluebird Box

There is something mysterious in the bluebird nesting box behind the crossvine on the dead oak tree in my front garden. I bought the nesting box with high hopes years ago, but to my knowledge, no bluebirds have ever nested there.

Early on, the nesting box was located along the fence in the backyard, where it was the scene of a grisly war. It happened at night, when I was sleeping in the house. In the morning light, I found the nesting box knocked to the ground, with feathers strewn about.

I moved the box to the oak tree in the front garden where the crossvine could act as a sentry. That spring a family of titmice moved in and kept it occupied the entire season.

A few years later, I noticed the box was full of moss and fluff -- an abandoned bird's nest maybe. I threw it to the ground, then reconsidered and returned it to the box. One day soon after, I lifted the wooden door and a small shadow moved to the back of the box. Fearing it was a snake, I dropped the door closed and didn't touch it again for several years.

Until recently. When I lifted the lid, a small mammal raised its head and squinted, sniffing the air. I closed the box quietly and left it in peace.

Blue River

Long ago, the roots of a white oak tree planted beside the sidewalk to the front door infiltrated the space below the concrete and caused a crack. Eventually an informal step two inches in height formed in the concrete. While the chipmunks have enjoyed this natural tunnel for the better part of a decade, last month it finally became necessary to replace the sidewalk.

I opted for a gravel walkway, re-routing the path farther from the tree and adding a side path to the stone bench in the small garden that I created last year in memory of my Dad. Normally, I do my own work, but not always very well and the result can be somewhat quirky. I don't worry about how things look in the backyard, but this walkway is in front of the house, and leads to the front door.

I called the stone shop near our home and asked for the name of a landscaper who was sensitive to established gardens. The stone shop man recommended a man to call and by the next day, we were in business.

When he arrived that first morning, the landscaper turned out to be a handsome young man who owns his own company. As we shook hands, I noticed the broad rough hands of a hard worker. Early that morning, he began removing the concrete sidewalk with a sledge hammer.

Later with a shovel, the landscaper dug out the new path through packed clay. He worked alone until dark. When I stopped by for lunch the next day, I asked him about his company. Perhaps from the backbreaking work over the previous two days, he seemed discouraged and my heart went out to this young hardworking man.

The walkway took three days to finish. In my garden is a beautiful path made of Delaware river rock, a stream of blue and gray that flows to the front door. I love the crunch of stones under my feet as I walk. While it is true that I wrote a check to the landscaper, I know that he had given me a gift as well.