Reflections on a Warm Garden from a cold place

I remember very little of my great grandmother, but I do remember the things that belonged to her. Maybe through love of those items I have gained some of her numen—as if her personality drenched the old books, the antique furniture, the ancient pots and pans. When I think of her I remember the hillside the old house clung to and the feral garden that rampaged over it—the wild strawberries and the five petaled purple flowers that peaked out from behind the vines and creeper that were her pride and joy. The white fountain glossed over with the patina of age lost in a torrent of ivy and tree trunks. The switchback of a path the zigzagged down the steep embankment—shadowed by lush greenery and tall trunks of sycamore and maple. Here and there the ghostly pale spikes of aspen trees loomed through the dimness. I remember it was always a little otherworldly—but before I could frighten myself too much there would be a well placed corner bench soaked with sunlight and the shroud of reality.

At the bottom of the hill was a brake of raspberry canes, carefully tended in the sandy soil of the ravine. No trees overshadowed this bower of buzzing, pollen drenched sweetness. I seem to recall that she would laugh at my fear of the insects that loved this part of her garden. I know as an adult that there had to be a regular old vegetable garden somewhere on the property—she was a pioneer after all. But I only remember the wild wonder of her witch’s garden.

I remember that we would receive the summons from Great grandma that the raspberries were on, or that the concord grapes were finally ripe. Then we would load into the old blue Honda and set out for the house in Layton. Mom and Great grandma would walk down to the brakes, carrying the old bent metal colanders that would soon be filled with raspberries or grapes—or both.

Great grandpa would show us his miniature steam powered trains and the figures of Restoration age heroes with their plumed droopy hats and then send us out the back to find the train tracks that were hidden by the greenery of the hillside. He always sent the dogs with us—Duke, the large Doberman Pincer with his lithe gracefulness and sad eyes; and Queenie, the spoiled Boston pit bull terrier with her pouty muzzle and her sharp teeth. They would race us down the seven flights of stairs and set off down the switchbacks. Soon outdistancing us they would disappear for several minutes leaving us to the dim magic of the hillside garden, to later burst forth from the undergrowth smelling of sweet grass and perspiration.

Most of the flowers in her garden/world were wild flowers, weeds to the uncultured. My great grandma believed that all plants were beautiful, weeds and all. She loved dandelions and fox grass, even the dreaded Dyer's Woed had some sympathy from her. All the plants needed were some love and some discipline--that is how she treated childred too.

Lately I have been thinking of gardens and growing things, anything that will take me away from the cold. For some reason Georgia always comes to mind--the guardian spirit of growing and of wild things.

Thoughts on President Hinckley

"I believe in myself. I do not mean this in an egotistic way. But I believe in my capacity and in your capacity to do good, to make some contribution to the society of which we are a part, to grow and develop, and to do things that we may now think impossible.
I believe that I am a child of God, endowed with a divine birthright. I believe that there is something of divinity within me and within each of you. I believe that we have a godly inheritance and that it is our responsibility, our obligation, and our opportunity to cultivate and nurture the very best of these qualities within us.
Though my work may be menial, though my contribution may be small, I can perform it with dignity and offer it with unselfishness. I can be one who does his work with pride in that which comes from hand and mind. I believe in the principle that I can make a difference in this world. It may be ever so small. But it will count for the greater good. The goodness of the world in which we live is the accumulated goodness of many small and seemingly inconsequential acts."

I have been thinking about President Hinckley a lot. This quote is on my wall and everytime I see it I think about this man of God who continues to give us strength even when he is gone. I pray for the new President, Thomas S. Monson.

New Arrivals

Alas, I have been truant in my blogging in this new year. I have been very busy. January was a tough month with all the snow and cold air. But two beams of sunshine have come through the snow clouds. Two new arrivals have made life very sweet lately. On January 1, 2008 my book was made available at Deseret Book. Here are pictures of my own book on the shelves and the cover as seen at Byubookstore.com.

The second arrival was that of my new nephew, Bracken Jay Geary born on February 9, 2008. 6 lbs. 15 oz. 20 inches long. He is a happy addition to Rylie (3) and Mason (2). Aaron and Brooke decided not to find out the sex of the baby. But I had a dream that it was a boy and have been thinking of him as "the Bean" for the last eight months. Bean is finally here!