Umbrella

I missed him more this week than I ever have.

I remembered his veins as thick purple tracks on the backs of his hands. And the way he would squint behind his glasses.

I heard the low tones of his voice as I drove on the blacktop snaking through the woods.  The sun was setting behind the forest and the trees pressed closely along the road.  Slowly it grew dark.

A memory turned over in my mind; his toast at the double wedding in 1997.  After a story about grandma's garden, he thanked the parents of the brides for giving us their two flowers.  Side by side, in wide white gowns and veils, two brides were the fragile wildflowers of early spring.

One summer evening 50 years ago, we parked along the shoulder of the access road to Westlake and waited for the fireworks to begin.  Suddenly there was an explosion at the launch site and rockets erupted at ground level.  He turned around and ran to us, arms spread wide, as if to funnel us to safety. "Kids, get behind the car.  Get behind the car."

During times of heartbreak -- and there have been a few -- he was there with arms spread wide, an umbrella offering shelter, even though he couldn't stop the rain.

Risk

As I was leaving for the airport at the end of my trip to Indy, Jeanne dug up a healthy clump of purple coneflower in full bloom. I put the rootball into a Kroger shopping bag, and jammed it into my black backpack.  The flowers burst out 2 feet through the opening.

When I got to the airport, the security people eyed the backpack and motioned to the conveyor belt. I lay down the backpack roots first and the coneflowers emerged out the other end in perfect condition.

When I got to my gate, the ticket agent told me that the flight attendants would never allow the plant on board. 

The flight was delayed, and delayed and delayed again. I finished all my puzzles. The airline gave the passengers vouchers for food.  It grew dark outside. Passengers and ticket agents grew tired and cranky.  Finally, the plane arrived at the gate and unloaded its passengers.  The intercom told us we had 5 minutes to load up.

I got in line with my ticket, the backpack on my shoulders, the coneflowers waving over my head.  When I got to my seat, the flight attendant told me to stuff them in the overhead.

I got them home without a scratch.

On another flight home, I brought a Rubbermaid pail with a periwinkle blue lid and handle.  Inside was precious cargo -- organic cow manure from Katie's farm.  After a routine scan at airport security, the pail took its flight at my feet in the cabin as I was not confident about the lid on takeoff and landing.

I got the manure home without incident.

Sometimes things seem unlikely, but they work out.

Red oak

A giant red oak in a copse of trees behind the house died this summer.  80 feet tall, with a thick trunk the color of slate, mottled with lichens and moss, deeply etched with crevice and chasm, the tree is the largest in the garden.  This spring, smallish leaves emerged and they slowly waned during the long hot summer.  By August,  the tree was beyond help, its enormous crown threatening the house. 

A woodcutter was hired.  One day soon, his trucks will arrive and by the end of the day, there will be a hole in the canopy that shelters my woodland garden from the brutal summer sun.

Labor Day marks the end of summer on the calendar, but in the South, the morning air is still sultry.  But one day in October, I wake at 6:45 as always, but when I step out of the house, the breeze is cool and crisp. 

And at the end of that day, when I drive home from work, I will turn on my headlights for the first time of the season.  The long hot summer that I swore would never end, will be suddenly over.

Everything stays the same until one day it doesn't.

I have lived with the same man for 35 years.  I have worked at the same job for 30.  I have lived in the same house for 25. 

Change does not come easily.

We moved to our home with 2 small girls, who grew up and moved away. I kept a childrens' place for them until one day, the space was needed for someone else.  And then I understood that the children were never coming back.

 Life moved on.