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.