Guardian Trees

We've lived on our Kentucky acre for more than 30 years. 

When we bought this home, it was guarded on three sides by 

huge grandfather trees. Their branches sheltered and shaded, 

creating what felt like cottage life in a wooded glen. 

We loved it. 

Some time ago, we lost one of the maples, but still had 

two huge trees hugging both sides of the house. 

Four years ago, another maple started losing its limbs, 

slowly, carefully. I came home once to a tree-sized branch

leaning against the house, but not crushing it. 

So kindly done. 

After that second maple was taken down, 

we still had one massive tree left, a sweetgum sentinel. 

Every fall, we enjoyed this--

My clever husband built a play platform around its trunk 

and it became the hub of our gatherings. 

But this August, the last of our guardian trees was destroyed 

in what must have been a small tornado. 

And now it's gone. 

It's as simple, and as difficult, as that.  

I'm so glad we have photos of the sweet gum giant 

with our children and grandchildren playing under it; 

thankful that our home was spared the same devastation. 

As one of our littles said, 

"The trees in heaven will be way better than the 

ones we had here." 

So true. 

 

Forget-Me-Not Thoughts

Forget-me-not blues. 

These have dotted my garden in years past, but they 

always seem to die out. Not in an ugly 

way--just not there when you look for them

in the spring. 

When I browsed hopeful rows of perennials this year, the 

sky blue and yellow color combination caught my eye. 

The plant name struck my heart and sealed the deal. 

"You're coming home with me." 

Do you ever whisper to your plants? 

Maybe we shouldn't admit such things.

The blooms are intricately crafted dainties, clustered 

in small bouquets. This would have been enough, 

but my macro lens revealed an extra bit of shareable beauty.

 Tiny yellow hearts ring the center, 

one heart for each petal.

In a season of home-goings, this plant spoke the 

exact language I needed to express a deluge 

of thoughts, emotions, and grief.

A backyard garden often reflects its keeper in this way. 

The gardener walks the rows and remembers--

these were Grandma's favorite flowers.

She spreads protective mulch and ponders--

I want to be tenacious like the tiger lilies.

In hottest July, she waters dry ground and nods along 

with the Master Gardener, whose plan is continually unfolding--

even to include a hydrangea blooming through a fence.

What reminders do the plants in your garden offer? 

What memories do they whisper at nightfall?

Do its citizens inspire any lofty ambitions? 

I'd love to know. 

Hope Tenders

 

January was bleak and quiet, a proper rest after months of holidays piling one 

on top of the next. A person can only eat so much sweet potato casserole*, even if 

the crumble topping is flawlessly crisp and thick.

February's unpredictable nature in this commonwealth may have you shoveling 

snow in your barn boots and sunbathing on the back porch in the same week. 

But as soon as January blows away from this Kentucky landscape, 

you'll find me peering under carpets of leaf mulch, looking for new garden growth. 

Already, the daffodils are inches above ground. 

Thyme plants (lemon and woolly) are greening up and nearly fragrant. 

Daylilies and irises, those workhorses, are 

pushing bold spikes of life above last year's litter.

And the star of February, the Lenten rose, is well on her way

 to making my heart content. Fragile pink blooms  

despite snow and freezing temps. It boggles the skeptical 

mind of this modern age. 

It's all about hope, isn't it? 

*

The sun will shine again, at its full strength.

* 

What we thought was long-gone might, against all odds, reappear. 

*

What seems dead really can become alive again. 

*

Gardeners are hope-tenders.

*Subscribe to my newsletter on Substack, and I'll send you my tried-and-true, much-requested sweet potato casserole recipe. The February installment of "Homeplaces" came out last week. Here's a link to take you there. Message me on Substack with your email address, and you'll have the recipe in time for Easter dinner.