Remembrance in a Garden

 Remembrance in a Garden

Groundhogs
eat the daylilies,
and usually leave the dahlias.
It is a small lesson,
but important
when you're trying to grow something beautiful.

So I plant dill.
I plant basil.
I plant mint
around the edges,
a fragrant promise.

Why dill?
Why not?

We're German.
We love pickles,
the sharp comfort of memory,
the taste of summer preserved.

The heat settles in,
a heavy quilt of July,
thick with humidity—

the kind of afternoon
when they say you could fry an egg
on a country road.

Maybe bacon, too.

Happy Birthday, America.

Two hundred fifty years,
still learning,
still forgetting,
still beginning again.

I remember another anniversary—
the Bicentennial.

I was almost twenty,
certain I understood the world.
I wore my red, white, and blue dress,
danced beneath fireworks,

believing tomorrow
would keep its promises.

It was just after Watergate.
The country was bruised,
but still breathing.

Gerald Ford stood quietly
where history had left him
and offered no victory,
only healing.

"Our long national nightmare is over."

Not a boast.
A hope.

He served,
then stepped aside,
accepting both office and defeat

with uncommon grace.

His farewell was not about himself.

It was a prayer:

May God guide this wonderful country,
its people,
and those who choose to serve them.

Amen.

Now, fifty years later,
the groundhog returns,
testing the garden once again.

Still, I plant.

I tuck hope beneath the soil,
ring the borders with herbs,
believe that what survives

can bloom.

Because remembrance
is not longing for a perfect past.

It is choosing,
season after season,
to tend what is worth saving,
to gather what is good,
and to leave behind
a garden of faith
for those who come after us.

 

Today We Pause

 Today We Pause

 

Today, we remember those who laid down their lives for our democracy

our way of life, and Eleanor Roosevelt comes to mind.

She said, “You Must Do The Things That You Think You Cannot Do.”

I’m wearing the shirt with that statement, in my mind, and looking out my window on this rainy morning, thinking about how the garden was a huge sacrifice

Much of my youth was spent pulling weeds, back-breaking work with little yield and much cost.

Now I appreciate the wildflowers fending for themselves with their steely determination.

The way they endure, while vicious and self-serving predators

concerned only with enriching themselves,

bark at and devour what they conceive as low-hanging fruit.

Anyone or anything that refuses to bend to their will.

Lives that mean nothing to them or their cronies.

Lives that sacrificed everything for liberty, GOD, and country

Honorable men and women who served

so that they could climb the ladder of success without so much as a turn of the head or a thank-you. The craven who claims his own orbit.

As if they deserved it. And we didn’t. 

Predators who trample the garden amidst those who continue to tend it, as if all that destruction never happened. The sustaining survivors, rebuilding, sacrificing, sowing hope from tiny seeds. So that we may bring a measure of joy to those who cannot.  The ones who paid and continue to pay, slaving and bowing, and hoping for reason, justice, and sanity. 

 

Requiem for a Star

Yesterday we remembered and honored Dad.

Requiem for a Star

He died, just short of his 80^th Birthday

survived by Mom, their three daughters, three son-in-laws, four grandchildren and one great grandson

so we stand here today in his garden

to pay our last respects

and to remember

the funny,

I’ll finish it tomorrow

lovable despot, that we called Dad.

 

He used to tell me

“Don’t touch me, I’m a star”

and I believed him.

I aimed high

and I followed my star to Hawaii

where I raised a family and flourished.

He expected great things

from his offspring

and we produced, as good offspring do.

And I oft times wondered if it was enough

I think it was, because Mom tells me so!

 

So we gather to remember the good

to heal, to reconcile the past.

We gather to laugh, shake our heads

to raise our glasses

and toast

the loose boards

hanging wires

half driven nails

and let us not forget

the bamboo, the sumac, and the poison ivy

because in spite of it all

he stayed long enough to

know, love and praise his four precious grandchildren

Jason, Kenny, Taylor and Lauren and great grandson, Chad

indeed, he loved us all.

 

Dear old Dad

a happy-go-lucky sort

rich in aspiration

and poor everyplace else.

A tyrant

with a dream of restoring a drafty old summer house

without running water

nestled on a hill between a rock pile

and a wild jungle of vines and sticker bushes

a house that sucked up money

like a good HEPA vacuum, leaving us just enough to get by

 

He had envisioned a sparkling jewel

and she stands to this day

an earthy un-pinned floozy.

a small poorly lit home

where he and Mom raised

their three sparkling fashionistas

each one of us

a strong-minded finisher

despite

Dad’s shining example.

 

Mom, Angie and Chrissy

brilliant, polished and uncut

and me

chasing stars

cherishing faint memories

of an iron-willed father

too hot for mere mortals

flawed but sweet

a man

whose light still shines in the garage

because like its creator

there is no off-switch

a man

resolute and irreverent

who never kowtowed to the crowd of popular opinion

an imperfect German perfectionist born in the free city of Danzig

a master electrician, a craftsman, and a ham-radio man

who shocked us with his frayed wires, his genius

hot-wiring his way into our hearts and minds

an enthusiastic family man with hopes and dreams

who touched us with his light

and left much too soon.

A man whose legacy includes

a bushel of antenna wire

three Bic lighters

and a nude statue of EVE

causing me to

rise each day before the dawn

gaze up at the sky

and to wonder

which star

might be his.

Movement

I’m moving on

past

the old boundaries of

I do not do that

I don’t think I can

I’m too old and

I’m afraid.

I’m plotting a new course

steering clear of old distractions

three steps forward

two back

taking the time

to listen and learn.

Pressing on because I MUST

and sidetracked

because

I hunger for what is comfortable

choosing safety

quelling my passion.

AND yet, I thirst

to make a difference

to leave my mark

to plant a seed, my seed

in the wild weed-ridden

misconstrued fields.

Hoping to turn wildflowers

into diamond pink petals and

lavender lined gardens

into a redolent harvest

of hybrid teas.

My arms open

willing to absorb the risk

stir in a bit of pain, discomfort.

I step up

into judgment

reaching out past the wise ones

the kupuna who have led me up to this place

the highest, most precious peaks

in the shadow of the Koolau

spreading their velvet-green robes

beyond

my self-imposed

self-absorbed limits

crowning present possibilities

seated upon this

pivotal throne.