Ken’s e-Pistle

September 27, 2023

Whenever the weather becomes a bit cooler I think of my sainted father.  He was a mortgage banker by trade but a Master Gardener by affection. His backyard was a showpiece, actually once featured in Southern Living, and his front yard was immaculate.  Before I left for college I spent untold hours building beds, amending soil and planting things whose names I could not pronounce.  Whenever he went out of town on business, he would bring back cuttings of exotic plants which he had purloined by dark of night and would diligently root them in the basement nursery which featured specialized lighting on timers, controlled heat and humidity, and a watering system which was doubtless the envy of the University of Georgian Agronomy Dept.

I have tried to channel his spirit around our homestead with only limited success.  Miss Vicki delights in wildflower gardens, of which we have three.  I am more of a bulb and shrub kind of guy, planting perennials around the bases of trees and setting out low-growing evergreen beds with irises and gladiolus which arise to add some drama.  The previous owner was more of a grass enthusiast, leaving us a blank canvass for landscaping.  No worries, we aren’t planning on going anywhere.  I have already declared that my next home will be the funeral home.

I have never understood how anyone who tends a garden could fail to acknowledge the presence of God.  Working in the soil, witnessing the fantastic interplay of insects, compounds and systems beneath the surface give voice to the Creator.

Of course, the season of dormancy in the garden is coming upon us.  Dad would be preparing mulch, buying straw and making lists of things for me to do before the first frost, even though the first frost was more than a month away.   “Nature sometimes requires a helping hand and constant preparation,” he would declare.  He was not about to let winter catch him by surprise.

Perhaps he was on to something.  I have an image of him surfing the seasons in his gardens; tending to this and that as the waves of time carried him forward until, in time, they carried him home.

I miss him most in the fall.  When the leaves turn colors and take flight on the wind, when the smell of wood smoke wafts through the breeze, when the bird feeders are busy and pumpkins begin to appear on front porches and steps, I miss him.  I can almost hear him shoveling in the mulch pile, telling me he needs a bit more nitrogen to make it plant-yummy.

I know where to look for him when I reach heaven.  Somewhere around those pearly gates he will have established a horticultural hollow.  That’s where he will be, gently turning the earth and inspecting for pests or fungus.  There won’t be any, of course, this being heaven.  But still, he will look for such is his nature.  And in the looking he will be happy.

I bid you peace!