Below you will find a photo of peonies that bloomed in my garden this morning. For some reason this is a once in three years occurrence so I greet each bloom with excitement. They are among the most beautiful peonies I have seen, and the scent is intoxicating. I have been a gardener for as long as I can remember. Growing up in a suburb of Johannesburg, South Africa, I remember my mother at work with her roses, about 50 bushes of various varieties, secateurs in hand as she deadheaded, debudded (to leave only one rose on a stem) and carefully removed aphids and other undesirable pests. My grandfather who spent a third of every year with us always wore a fresh rosebud in the lapel of his suit jacket. When I was an adolescent I was given the rock garden as my provenance and loved to plan and plant and move rocks. My nemesis was the snails who shared my rock garden. Johannesburg, situated on a plateau at 6,00 feet, and with a temperate climate, dry heat and usually reliable summer rain, is an Eden for gardeners. There is one drawback, cyclical drought and with it watering restrictions, so every seven years gardeners watch their hard work, manicured lawns and the beauty they created wither and die. In the suburbs drilling for artesian water sources was a flourishing business.

As a young wife and mother I had first a pocket garden with an almost sub-tropical micro-climate due to a sunny vantage and thick white washed walls. Around giant strelitzes,  avocado and mulberry trees the carefullly designed borders flourished. Later I had almost an acre in which to garden and loved every inch of the rich loam in which whatever I planted grew with vigor and beauty.

When we moved to the Boston area many years ago I had to re-examine everything I had learned about gardening. Our first home was a three hundred year old carriage house set on an acre of land. We had hundred year old giant beeches on the property. The land itself had been neglected for years, but with care and attention a garden will emerge with alacrity from underneath the undergrowth and weeds. As I uncovered flower beds, dug and sowed, the garden returned to some of its previous glory. From spring to autumn we ate fresh produce from the rescued and resuscitated cold frame beds. I planted strawberries around the swimming pool, hosta in the shady areas and a riot of day lilies wherever I could. I learned to accept the cycle of the year, and reluctantly return my gardening tools to their permanent place in the garage each November. Come February the catalogs arrived and soon I would have spindly seedlings growing under lights.

I planted myself in American soil in bringing that garden back to life.

Now I have a much smaller garden again. It is all I want to manage. For me little else in life compares to the satisfaction of caring for a flower bed of rich dark soil where every plunge of the weeding fork or hand spade reveals not only the roots of the weed but wriggling earth worms too. Then you know you have an arable patch and the result is glorious peonies like these.

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My Mother (1920-2010)

My mother died on May 16, 2010 and I am dedicating this post to her.

Her funeral was a memorable occasion filled with the bitterness of loss and the sweetness of celebrating her life. Her family was present, two children, five grandchildren, two great grandchildren, daughter and son-in-law, grandchildren-in-law, as well as many members of our extended family, and friends. In her heartfelt eulogy my eldest niece called my mother a matriarch. This is an apt description. My mother was a strong, independent woman to whom our extended family looked for, and were generously given, unconditional support. She was the conduit through whom we all connected. On the night she had a stroke several years ago, she had called family members around the globe to wish them New Year greetings. It was so painful to watch as the devastation of the stroke took her independence, almost all of her speech and eventually her mobility. She endured three years in a wheelchair without complaint and with an indomitable will not to succumb without a fight to the inevitability of death. Not for one moment did she go gently into that dark night.

My mother had a remarkable life spanning almost a century. She was born in Africa and died in North America. Left motherless at the age of two, she was the second of three siblings. After a happy marriage my mother was widowed at forty-nine, and shortly thereafter became a cancer survivor. When she turned sixty she emigrated to be with her son (my brother) and his young family. She set about building a new life in a strange country. Her friendliness and willingness to try new ventures, brought her happiness and many new friends.

My mother was a lady in the best sense of that word. Always dressed with appropriate flair and style, she warmly carried that propriety into all her relationships. She never missed a grandchild’s graduation either from high school, college or grad school. She provided a haven for her often harried family, cooking familiar and well-loved foods. She always had the right words for each occasion, and a gift whenever appropriate. She was a political junkie and hardly ever missed the BBC news on the radio and TV. She had a soft spot for Bill and Hilary Clinton and Pierre Trudeau. She loved watching tennis and golf and had a soft spot for Jim Courier, Roger Federer, and Tiger Woods. She loved playing bridge. She was a knitter and her family treasure the blankets she knitted for us. My mother loved walking, nature, and being out-of-doors. She was an avid reader with weekly visits to the library. She survived cancer, heart attacks, several falls resulting in broken shoulders and hips, and through it all she maintained her dignity, her compassion and her interest in all the family “doings” and the events in the world at large.

In her last years as she endured increasing discomfort from being wheelchair bound and from the effects of the slow debilitating deterioration of her advancing age, so my admiration and love for her grew exponentially.

A mother is irreplaceable and there is a hole inside of me.

Now, Mom, you know the mystery of the bourn from which no one returns. Rest in peace.