I’ve had the garden tidied up,
As they would have me do.
These little pals who couldn’t stay
To see the season through.
The flowers were their dearest friends,
The garden was their own,
I’ve watched their work, but never knew
The things that they had grown.
Their catalogues keep coming, and
Their garden magazine;
I run across the queerest names,
And study what they mean,
I read them all, from end to end,
And when the spring is here,
I’ll have a garden just like theirs,
As though my friends were near.
Albert H. PEDRICK
We are all just the caretakers of today, not really owning anything. I came after a long line of TRUE gardeners that created the beauty of Winterpast. Each spring, new plants make an appearance, and I struggle to keep things looking like a real gardener lives here. For my new readers, let me explain.
I moved to Winterpast seventeen days after my husband, VST, died of cancer, a train wreck that took him away in only nine weeks. We knew each other for 50 years, harmonizing in high school choir. Lost in a widow’s fog so dense, I started reading a book by Jan Karon about a little town that doesn’t exist. Woven into the book were stories about Mitford and the people that live there. The story of a mansion named Winterpast unfolded.
Winterpast is place we want to be as a new widow. It’s a place where healing is starting to take root. A place of hope. A place where you can sleep soundly, waking up without the daily shock of an empty pillow next to yours. A place where you finally find your footing to carry on down the path out of the first brutal days of widowhood. I was lucky enough to find a home that is my Winterpast. I named her that.
Cared for by amazing gardeners before me, my yard is a true desert oasis. No matter the problem, Winterpast is my place of answers. In the cold, she keeps me warm. While I sleep, she keeps me safe. Cocoon-like, she’s let me spout new wings and rise to meet each day. Somedays, she is the only purpose I have. As a retiree, that’s the way it should be at this stage in life.
In memory of a sweet gardener that lived here before me, I end with verses from Song of Solomon 2:11-13 (NKJV). It is from these words that my Winterpast came to be.
For lo, the winter is past,
The rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth;
The time of singing has come,
And the voice of the turtledove
Is heard in our land.
The fig tree puts forth her green figs,
And the vines with the tender grapes
Give a good smell.
Rise up, my love, my fair one,
And come away!
Heaven will be lovelier now that this beautiful man has gone to his favorite girl. May they have endless gardens to enjoy. I promise, I’ll take care of the weeds and watering around here.
I love you, CY. My prayers are with you.
More tomorrow.