Library - 5808Last week, Serena’s godfather came by to plant a rose bush for her. Her middle name is Rose, and he wanted her to have flowers. Very sweet and simple. Then he saw our front yard.

When we moved into our lovely new home last fall, the front yard was a wasteland. It was also low on the priority list. This house is old, and was in need of a lot of work. Things like finishing our back bedroom, painting the walls, upgrading the wiring and replacing the heating system all trumped even looking in the front yard.

“This rose needs to grow in a place that people love,” he declared. Then he set to work. The kids and I loitered nearby, and gradually started using the growing pile of garden tools ourselves, in a way that might have been described as helping. Rio drove her little toy car back and forth between the garden bed he was clearing and the driveway I was sweeping for an hour, carrying supplies and water.

We took ten large contractor bags out of our tiny urban yard. Then the rose went in, and sat there lonely and the empty yard. Until it’s benefactor returned the following week with bags of mulch, blueberry bushes, and a dozen other little plants whose names escape me.  Suddenly, we have a garden.

John believes “the natural fate of this place is to grow flowers”, and it’s on it’s way to doing so, in abundance.

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