Gardens and Grandchildren
Yesterday was planting day, the day allium and tulip bulbs of various hue and shape find their places in my garden. In preparation, my wife and I pore over on-line catalogues, ordering bulbs that complement what I harvested from my flower beds and stored for the winter. She’s a purist and would be perfectly happy with an acre of yellow or pink tulips. I, on the other hand, prefer to be overcome by color and texture, the more garish, the better. Fortunately, we don’t have an acre of land or the tractor I’d need to plant it. But we manage to compromise, and each spring we find ourselves marveling at both the purity and variety of shape and color.
We take as much pleasure in the planting as we do in the anticipation of watching the mysterious emergence of blossoms in late spring. Few things are as predictable and yet as magical. What could be better?
That’s an important question, because the obvious answer is, not much. But that’s the wrong answer. Perhaps as a gift of advancing age, we continue to be surprised. Though yesterday’s experience might have been close to perfect, the possibility exists that today’s experience might be even closer.
Even when we think we’ve experienced the height of joy, there is always something that can enhance or otherwise magnify what we have to be grateful for.
Last year, when I had more bulbs than I could use, I offered to plant tulip beds in our children’s yards. This year I continued the tradition and took boxes of bulbs to plant in the beds we created in my daughter and son-in-law’s garden. This year, though, we have an added incentive to visit them. Granddaughter Avi, all 12 pounds of her. She has her father’s serene expression and, it seems, his unflappable temperament. At eight weeks she’s almost strong enough to hold up her head. She examines my face with her mother’s serious, dark eyes, intense and focused, already curious about the reasons for my adoration. She’s not yet laughing at me, but that will come in time.
We head outdoors on a perfect late fall day of warm sunshine, cloudless skies, the air clear and cool. Nestled against her mother, Avi loses interest in gardening and her eyes close. As I prepare and fertilize the beds, we talk quietly about how best to arrange the bulbs. Along the border, a mix of Rembrandt tulips. In the back, rows of massive Gladiator alliums. Behind them, ones I’ve never planted before, Siculum Bulgaricum, the flowers of which look like handfuls of greenish-white bells, flushed purple at the edges.
When we’re all through, I wash and change, scrub the soil from under my nails, and drink iced tea. Avi’s awake by now, well-fed, alert. I feel lighter as I take her weight in my arms. She’s waiting for a story. I have just the tale.
“In late spring,” I whisper to her rapt expression, “once the long winter has receded and summer warmth seems finally within reach, we will go out together into the garden and see what nature has wrought.” I’m sure she’s mouthing my words as I speak, learning to control the tiny muscles around her lips that will make her smile irresistible. “Little green shoots from the bulbs we planted together today will have emerged from the earth, and as the days pass you can watch them grow taller,” I continue. “Soon they will bud, and then bloom. By then you’ll be nine months old, aware enough of your own arms and hands to reach out and touch the blossoms, to be fascinated by the bright natural colors. We’ll look at the allium’s purple florets, examine handfuls of purple-edged, bell-like flowers with interior eyes and deep plum striations, and the red, white and yellow tulips.”
You are a miracle, I think. Miracles upon miracles.
Hard to know how long this will continue, but I aim to be planting tulips and allium, wondering at grape and pomegranate vines, with grandchildren, wherever they might be, for as long as they care to tolerate my company.
Now that I’ve discovered the unexpected possibility of heightened joy, I plan to be open to it for as long as it’s willing to search me out. I know it won’t materialize every day; perhaps, by design, it can only be a seldom affair. But I hope to be aware that it might emerge when I’m least expecting it. If there is anything better, I can’t imagine what it might be. But I hope I can always retain the capacity to be surprised.