The Heirloom Garden by Viola Shipman

Author:Viola Shipman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Graydon House Books
Published: 2020-02-25T20:50:14+00:00

PART EIGHT

LADY’S MANTLE

“A crown is merely a hat that lets the rain in.”

—Frederick the Great

IRIS

JULY 2003

Michigan weather is a fickle dame.

Oftentimes—no matter the time of year and solely dependent upon the direction of the wind—our weather exhibits a split personality. It can be gloriously sunny one moment, the lake flat, the clouds pressed inland. An hour later it can be downright bone-chilling, lake-effect rain showers falling as the cold wind crosses the warmer waters of Lake Michigan.

Today can’t seem to make up its mind, I think.

I look up, putting my face into the brisk wind, and half expect to see the Wicked Witch pedaling by in the sky on her bike.

The Fourth had been glorious. The fifth is ominous.

I started gardening at 6:00 a.m. in jeans, a sweater and a rain jacket but have now stripped down to a long-sleeved T-shirt. I know that could soon change again. The clouds and rain are looming; they sweep over the lake like fighter planes, low, close and ominous. Right now, however, the sun is shining brightly, the skies are clear over my head, the temperatures moderating.

“Are we still on?”

I hear Cory’s voice over the fence. It is thick with sleep.

“Of course,” I call.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” he says hopefully.

“Everything needs watering,” I say. “Gate’s open.”

“Let me gather the troops,” Cory says.

I continue with my work. I kneel on my pad and begin to dig up the grass and weeds that have grown through the lake stones that comprise most of my gardens’ borders. I cannot tolerate anything popping through my borders: it’s like a dusty frame around a piece of art. All you notice is the dust.

I love being lost in my garden at dawn, before the day intrudes. The flowers literally wake before your eyes, stretching to meet the sun, sipping their morning cup of dew. And Mother Nature wakes, too: a flutter here of a sleepy butterfly, a buzz there of an awakening bee. My hands dig into the still cool, damp dirt, and I can feel my soul settle into the earth, becoming one with nature. I am not apart from this earth; I am a part of it.

“Hello?”

I look up and Cory, Abby and Lily walk in slow motion like zombies into the yard. Cory and Abby are holding gigantic mugs of steaming coffee, while Lily is still in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes.

“Good morning!” I say.

They mumble at me.

“What are you doing?” Cory asks.

“Weeding,” I say. “The most important and disliked part of gardening. But I love it.”

“Why?” Lily asks.

“Because it makes everything prettier,” I say. I stand with a grunt and turn to look at the trio. “I once read that gardening is a lot like life. You have to get a little dirt under your nails for the best results.”

Lily yawns, looking none too enthused.

As if on cue, the sun emerges. The world glimmers. All of the garden’s glorious colors are spotlighted as if they are wearing sequined dresses and dancing on Broadway. The light seems to wake everyone up.

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