Monday, May 30, 2011


In the summer of 2009, the silo came down.  As part of our shoreline project, Husband managed to include the demolition of the very old and dangerously crumbling silo nested closely to the old red barn, which is our Waverly trademark.  Inhabited seasonally by ravens, black-headed vultures and other things that go bump in the night, we had mixed feelings about its demise, but reasoned it could only end up hurting someone with its occasional masonry tile exfoliation.  Each section was brick-heavy and capable of killing.  So, over she went.

As I captured the precise moment of death on camera, a lump lodged in my throat and a still, barometric depression began forming in my chest.  "Is it just a heart attack," I thought, "or am I going to cry?"  Neither happened.  And then "Ca-Smash."  Quiet is the time after an event so transforming.  The former brown, shiny, stoney silo was an elongated ridge of broken pottery.    White dust hung in a cloud  over the slain corpse of our long-time companion and the grave diggers with metal arms loaded the remains onto a huge dump truck bound for landfill interment.  Goodbye forever, old friend.

After a respectable period of mourning, we visited the death scene and were pleasantly surprised to discover a cleared, beautiful, fertile, loamy garden space that had been hiding under our deceased friend.  A great place to sow seeds for a late fall garden.  The impetus of the universe from cosmic to quantum emerges tirelessly, a last act/first act melding of everything, destruction fomenting the beginnings of new and wonderful possibilities.

Saturday, May 7, 2011


    Mother gardened for pleasure.  Father planted vegetables while Mother grew and maintained a large strawberry patch of the "Red Rich" variety and flowers in the form of climbing roses, gladiolas, hollyhocks, verbena, four o'clocks and portulaca.

    Once I observed her creating new rose plants from cuttings.  I took careful note of the process and secretly took a cutting, planting it at the far end of Dad's garden, placing a rock over the base of the future rose plant.  By Mother's Day, it had taken hold and was gaining strength and growing out.

    As a nine year old, I had no money to buy presents, so I drew and colored a card and put a bow on the fledgling rose bush.  On Mother's Day, I told my mom I had a big surprise for her.  She followed me down to the garden and her surprise was genuine and touching. 

    Never again did I surpass the success of that particular present or fail to understand the power and awe of love and enthusiasm for life, transplanted from parent to child.

    Happy Mother's Day.