Dark night

.

I peered out the window, checking for fireflies, but the night was thick and black. The rain had stopped so I stepped outside into the gray fog. I walked down the driveway. A strong methane gas odor wafted from the daylilies. I shined a flashlight into the flowerbed and noted that the asters had been eaten.

As I stood there quietly, I sensed someone's presence among the azaleas. Fear rose within my chest. Suddenly, a young deer jumped back and ran down the street.

To cut off access to the garden, I backed the car midway down the driveway. As I walked to the house, I noticed the tender new plants purchased today for my container garden at work. As I carried them into the kitchen, I noticed a soft brown substance on the side of the petunias. It leaped off onto the floor and hopped away.

It is not easy to trap a toad. Eventually, I caught it in a dishtowel and moved it outdoors without damage. He stuck around long enough to be photographed. Good luck, little fella.

Deer

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In the morning, I smell them. Their scent floats along the fence on the East side of the garden. A musky smell, wild and dank.

I look for evidence. Phlox glaberrima 'Morris Berd' -- every pink blossom is nibbled away. Chartreuse foliage on yellowroot (Xanthorhiza simplicissima) is tattered and torn. Gumpo azaleas are trimmed into a tight ball.

Along the grassy path to the driveway, a branch on the dogwood hangs limply. The Johnny jump-ups, full of color yesterday, are nipped to the ground. The tender tips of the asters are roughly chopped. By good fortune, the daylilies and hostas are spared -- for now.

I have heard that deer love roses, thorns and all. Yet the ground cover roses along the street are ignored. If only 'Snow Carpet' would become a good meal, I could find the courage to replace them. I planted them 5 years ago to provide rose hips for the birds, unaware that ground cover roses form no hips. But despite my garden regrets, I do not welcome grazers.

I wish the deer family well -- a long and happy life. Living creatures need food to thrive. I hope they find plenty of nourishment in our neighbors yards.

Memorial day

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The garden is lush and green during the last week of May.






In the morning light, tall oaks shade the stone path to the door.

.

Johnny jump-ups at the front of the path were trimmed regularly by deer and rabbits throughout the winter. They explode with flowers in May but will flag in the sultry days of June.

The bleeding heart and purple heuchera make a striking combination beside hostas 'Sum and Substance' and 'Francis Williams.'

Near the end of the path, more hostas are protected by low sweeping branches of a Japanese maple.

A concrete bench invites rest in the shade beyond the hostas.

Remembrance.

.

21

She would be 21 this year, she noted. I wonder how she'd be?

There was a long silence and when she spoke again, there was a catch in her voice.

When she heard the news, a crevice began in your mother's heart that deepened with every passing week. The sides are dark and jagged with sharp rocks. At the bottom is a salty river of tears.

Beautiful days in the month of flowers are the most difficult.

At 11, you were a serious student, a kickball champion and a help-mate to your mother. By 21, you may have remade yourself several times over. But you would be proud of your mother's new career, and you might admire the scholarly achievement of your sister, although you would have earned several of your own by then.

It was not your choice to leave, and we would have stopped fate if that were possible. There is still an empty seat at every dinner table, and in every reunion photo. But most of all, we miss you today, and wish you could stand beside us as we look at the ferns and hostas in your mothers garden.

Cinco de Mayo

!Feliz cumpleanos a mi querida hermana,
hoy en 5 de mayo!

Prayer

Blessed are those who are slow to anger
And quick to forgive.





Blessed are those who are gentle in spirit
And kind at heart.




Blessed are those who are merciful to children
And generous with parents.




Blessed are the peacemakers,
For they bring the kingdom near.




May blessings come to you today,
On your birthday, and always. Amen

Nomadic pond

Every spring, I dig up my pond and move it.

Last year, I found the perfect site in the far corner of the yard, nestled among ferns and mosses and wild dayliles in a low spot, shady and cool on a hot afternoon. Flat stones circled the rim. Three pond plants and three small goldfish completed the habitat.

At the time, we were in drought, but a few months later, a hurricane slogged along the coast, kicking up 4 inches of rain within hours. The water puddled until it submerged the pond, which could no longer be seen.

In the deep water, the fish swam over the rim of the pond and hid amid the floating leaf litter, twigs and chunks of bark. They celebrated their emancipation, darting and diving in their expanded home, unaware that it was only temporary.

As the water subsided, I could see the rim of the pond. To rescue the fish from doom, I crouched in the mud, spaghetti strainer in hand, but the fish were adept at hiding among floating debris. They darted this way or that, avoiding the strainer, which in turn stirred up additional rubbish.

The fish enjoyed their freedom and didn't give it up easily.

In April, I moved the pond again and began contructing a rain garden on the low shady spot. As I do every spring, I vowed never to move that pond again.