Mom's Garden

My mother has working hands.  Hands that over the years she has professed to be embarrassed of.  They are not hands that are smooth from idleness.  They are beautiful hands to me.  They have rocked me and soothed me and fed me and provided every comfort a child could need.  Her hands are especially familiar with the turning of dirt, the nurturing of plants from seedlings to bloom.

The summer mornings of my youth would find mom in the garden.  I'd wake around 7 a.m.  I've never been one to sleep in much, even when I could have got a pass for it in my teen years.  I'd put on a robe and open the front door onto a cool Clarkston morning.  If I close my eyes I can almost feel the way the still country air felt on my skin, that delicious crispness of morning.  Mom would look up from under her wide brimmed hat and smile.  Most of the time she'd be wearing a long sleeved t-shirt, to keep the sun off of her arms to prevent age spots later, she'd explain.  I'd sit on the step and we'd visit while she pulled weeds and watered flowers.  She'd tell me about how she wanted this or that flower bed to look.  I'd go into detail about the plot of the latest book I was reading.

I don't remember us ever discussing any heavy topics, but those talks meant so much to me.  It gave me alone time with a woman and friend I adored who happened to be my mother.  We'd stay out there until it became too warm for gardening.  It's never occurred to me until now that one of the things that mom must love about gardening is that it is something that is all her own.  As a mother I know now, you don't get much of anything that is all your own.  I can't even finish a can of soda without Ava or Brig sneaking a sip out of it.  

Over the years Mom's garden has become something beautiful and delightful to look at.  Her green thumb was passed down from her own mother who has also always maintained a beautiful yard.  My mom has sometimes said she isn't very artistic, but she is wrong.  I know how much thought goes into which variety of flower or plant should go where to compliment it's neighbor.  She paints a landscape with the sweat of her brow and a shovel and spade.

That she is so good at nurturing things isn't a surprise to someone who has felt the full effort of her love and care.  I'm grateful each day for the mother I was born to.  For the wonderful qualities she possesses.  There are some summer mornings when I wake up and light is coming through my window that I imagine just for a moment that I can rise and join my mom in the garden.  We'll talk and laugh and the day will be bright with possibilities.  I am lucky for the years I had in my childhood home.  I may never be the kind of gardener my mom is, but I hope I can give that kind of gift to my own daughters, to plant a garden of love and affection in their hearts.  I love you, Mom.  Happy Mother's Day!