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I moved a university library this weekend. Not alone -- we hired a company that specializes in library relocations, plus a second firm to move our office belongings.

Our new library is glass and steel with wide views of an oak/hickory forest on the North and South. My office has a big picture window, a thin sheet of glass that separates the calm green of nature from the chaos of boxes and bins in my office.

As I boxed up 25 years of worklife, I found a notecard on my bulletin board, A Fairy Tale by Carlton A. Smith. For years, I have treasured the image of a mother and two daughters from the 19th century. Inside, a message to me was written in 1986 by a former employee, a sensitive and bright young woman with brown hair. She had moved to Durham alone right out of college, and her first job was in our library. She avoided speaking about family and rarely mentioned friends. If she grew lonely, she never said. She worked intensely with us for several months and then moved on.

22 years later, I read her card in my new office. As she speaks to me again, I sense her fragility with an ache in my heart. I search for her on the internet and find someone with the same name and of the proper age, who seems to be homeless and insane. I file the card away but am haunted by her memory.

Please say a prayer for my sweet and gentle friend.

Futile plans

In the South, between the burst of bloom in spring and the rave of color in fall, there is a long hot humid summer, which is mostly green. Even annuals tire out mid-season.

Years ago, I made a plan to spice up the green doldrums -- a red and white garden to bloom in July. A man from the local gardenshop looked at the site and suggested crape myrtles. I planted three red crapes against the back fence. White crapes would form a beautiful contrast to the red. Deep green oaks would be the backdrop. That was the plan.

The red-and-white theme continued in the flowersbeds nearby, with white Phlox paniculata "David" and red bee balm, Monarda "Jacob Kline." By the end of fall, all plants were healthy and strong. So far, the plan was working perfectly.

The first summer, the red crape myrtles bloomed a garish pink color. Still, the blooms looked good against the deep green of the oaks and the fluffy white blooms of the other crapes.

By the second year, one of the white trees began to show a smattering of pink blooms, which increased every year. Today, one of the "white" trees is completely pink, in a soft shell tone. The three reds are deep pink. The remaining white crape took a direct hit from an oak tree in a hurricane and has been in recovery for years.

The red and white perennials are gone also. The soil in the bed nearly proved too dry and shady for bee balm and phlox. They were moved and in their places, I am trying white wood aster and black cohosh.

The red and white July garden that I planned years ago is not red or white in July. Summer is green. But I have learned to love the color green. This year, we have gotten ample rain and the garden is lush and verdant.

Views

Except for a brief excursion to the curb each Thursday morning, trash bin #9605219 stands stoutly in the side yard. This is what it sees:

The old Chrysler minivan no longer has air conditioning or back seat, but it does have a pretty view of impatiens every weekend.

Here's what the Rain King sees:

Brush

Wildlife garden writers often suggest adding a brush pile in a remote corner of the yard. A brush pile in a wooded area is one of the most valuable parts of a wildlife garden, they advise. In spring and summer, a brush pile provides a nesting spot for birds, amphibians, and small mammals, and in winter is a refuge for many creatures.

For several years, we piled our tree trimmings in a corner of our pie-shaped lot. Eventually, it formed a pile about 3 feet in height and 6 feet in diameter. Our next door neighbors have a 6 foot fence so we didn't hear any complaints.

In the fall, I decided to compost oak leaves on that spot, so I moved the brush pile about 10 feet farther back, under mature oaks, and young maples and hickories.

I concentrated when picking up each piece of wood, to avoid an encounter with a snake. I was startled by a sound. The neighbor who lives behind us stood at the edge of her yard, her eyes small and hard. "I've beeen watching for you," she hissed. "What are you doing?" I explained about the brush pile. "BULL!!" she said. "You are moving the pile there to antagonize me." My husband was nearby and came to speak to her, but in the end she moved on saying, "Why can't you have a yard like everyone else's."

I left my brush pile in place, although I am careful to keep it under three feet in height. I often hear scratching and scurrying in that woody area. Birds search for insects among the branches and chipmunks make a quick get-away into the brush. Squirrels and rabbits are invited make their homes in this small corner of our garden, just has humans have made their homes throughout the neighborhood.

Crape myrtle

The crape myrtle at the end of the driveway is at its peak for your birthday, Lizziebrod. I wish I could give it to you as a gift.

One hot summer, a cardinal raised her family there. She seemed annoyed whenever I would check on the progress of her brood.

This week I noticed the twiggy nest of a brown thrasher in the holly tree. The babies stretched their skinny necks helplessly into the air, while the thrasher chirped a warning from her post nearby. When I went to check on them the next day, the nest was empty.

I hope I am the first to say happy birthday to the crazy bird lady of St. Louis.

Hope

To my sister with a heavy heart and healing hands. Thanks for going on, even when you didn't want to, so I could wish you a happy birthday. I hope today brings you a moment of unexpected beauty.

Monastery

In Nice in June, I took the bus up a tall hill to the Matisse museum. A tiny old woman sitting near me on the bus spoke only French, but she advised me on the proper bus stop for the museum, then added that the Cimiez monastary nearby had magnificent stained glass windows created by Chagall. At least, that's what I thought she said.

At Cimiez, the church had only small windows, which predated Chagall by a few centuries. I walked up to the second floor of the monastary, where a small crowded Franciscan museum showed the way of life for monks in the 17th century. Gregorian chant played softly in the background. In one small stone room, a woman stood weeping quietly with her back to the door.

Outside in the formal Italianate garden, brightly colored flowers like cockscombs, marigolds and petunias were mixed together and framed by tidy strips of grass. It was hot in the midday sun and I found an old bench under an olive tree that offered views of the hills of Nice below and beyond that, the sea. An elderly woman walked over and I invited her to share my bench. She spoke to me in French for a long time, although I could not understand or reply.

France

At the end of June, I went to Nice, then on to Provence. Sunny and hot, Nice offered wonderful food, beautiful architecture and interesting museums. People were welcoming and patient. We stayed in an expensive hotel across the street from the Mediterranean Sea, as my husband was on business.

Plage means beach, but Nicoise plages are nothing like NC beaches. The water is still and blue, and the shore is covered with smooth blue-gray stones. I didn't see any nude sunbathers there, but heavy and hirsute men in Speedos satisfy any voyeristic tendencies.

I had imagined Nice as a bouquet of flowers. Some residents grew bouganvilla and lantana in windowsboxes that overlook the narrow streets, but most public gardens have trees, shrubs and grass with wide concrete paths and classic benches and fountains. Someone advised me to see parc de la colline du Chateau at sunset; you take the elevator to the top of a cliff overlooking the Meditaranean and you can see all the way to Monaco, they said.

We started out at 7:15 and walked quickly in the 90 degree heat. When we reached the ascenseur, we found it closed, requiring us to walk a million steps in the hot sun to the top. Heat reflected off the stone cliffs beside the stairs. When we finally climbed to the summit, a policeman appeared and blew a whistle to announce the park was closing. Everyone out.

We made our way back down the stairs and ate dinner at the marketplace in midieval Vieux Nice, choosing a table near the old Roman arches. The breeze was refreshing. As we ate, French families arrived from all directions to eat at the cafes in the marketplace. As darkness fell, televisions appeared in the cafes, tuned in to the national soccer semifinals. The mood was light. We were hungry and the food was fresh. It was one of our best meals in France.

Alaska

My daughter is leaving for Alaska. She is 23 years old with her whole life ahead of her. When I was 23, I found my first full-time job, bought my first car and rented my first apartment. That spring, I planted coleus on a thin strip of earth bordering the concrete patio. This was my first gardening mistake as they burned up over the summer.

Now 33 years later, my garden is a third of an acre, and mature, with an oak overstory 50+ years old. The azaleas beneath them were already established when we bought our home 20 years ago. Understory trees like dogwoods and pawpaws are at least 10 years old. Garden beds with a variety of shrubs and perennials meander here and there, reflecting my interests over the years.

There is a satisfaction in the ease and familiarity of a mature garden. I enjoy the constancy and comfort of memories spanning 20 years. A garden slowly takes shape after a thousand small decisions over time. And while I ask myself why I didn't plant redbuds instread of crape myrtles, for the most part, I am comfortable with my garden.

Sometimes at night, I dream I am 23 years old. I wake up longing to have those years back. But if that were possible, it would require giving up my garden.