During this pandemic at times I want a constant or at least some sense of balance. I am like those referred to in Sharon's McDonald's poem "A Prayer for the Dazed."
For those whose "check engine" light just flashed;
For those recently deposited, trembly-legged, from a roller-coaster;
For those who forgot their lines as they entered, stage right;
For those poised tensely like a deer in the headlights;
For those badly jet-lagged who fumble for their passport;
For those just awakening not sure of their name;
For those who sat near as a loved one died a "good" death;
Oh God, we pray, repeat yourself:
Vouchsafe again and again the law of gravity;
Reiterate that day follows night and crocuses follow icicles;
Push the tides endlessly like a rocking cradle
Until we can recognize the rhythm of our own breath;
Until we can blink and regain our balance;
Until our hearts beat steadily again
Regaining balance is a challenge during this COVID-19 pandemic. A recent visit to Prospect Gardens to check out the emerging spring helped me to regain balance, at least for the time of my visit. Here's what I discovered.These white Hyacinths greeted me and I rejoiced. They were a gift and after the blooms faded, I put the three bulbs in a closet. Last fall I planted them: Hyacinths followed darkness and the icicles of winter.
The history of this Forsythia confirms Lao Tzu's observation. It was planted eleven years ago and hardly bloomed until this year. Now it's in full bloom in the midst of a pandemic. Beauty in nature co-existing with society-wide dread of COVID. A balanced contradiction.
I did nothing to encourage the Forsythia in overcoming its own daze. It's a mystery about how and why that happened. May this Forsythia grace the Gardens as the years unfold. Meanwhile this year's blossoms broadcast that spring is here.
Seeing the Daffodils again reminds me of my year (1975) in Monmouth, Oregon. I was attending Oregon College of Education completing Oregon's special education certification. On a spring day when the rains stopped I drove out into the country in my trusted 1950 Ford, which I named "Fred Ford". Actually Fred Ford at times was not to be trusted, but I never worried about it. Occasionally, at a stop light his engine would cut out for a few minutes. I would patiently wait and after a brief rest, Fred Ford would be ready to move again.
On that particular day in the country, Fred Ford purred along. Once I got out of Monmouth, which didn't take long because it's a small town, fields full of Daffodils greeted me. Such delight on an overcast Oregon day. The memory is still fresh in my mind.
These Siberian Squill have also found their way into Prospect Gardens and to my delight. There were none a few years ago. I marvel how these early signs of spring spread on their own. They seemed to be more abundant this year and are lasting longer, perhaps because of the cool spring weather.
Siberian Squill is a favorite spring flowers of Emily, my daughter, who now lives in Oakland, California. I sent her a text with a picture of a large patch of Siberian Squill from along Edgewood Drive in Vilas Park.
The Bay area was one of the first areas to shelter-in. Ann and I were relieved when Emily began working from home on March 11th. Normally, she commutes daily on the Bart into San Francisco for her job with Ancestry.com.
Their foul smell flowers attracts carrion flies that act as pollinators. Early herbalists used this plant to treat gangrene, since, according to the Doctrine of Signatures, plants were used to cure the ailments they resembled.
I would like white Trillium in the Gardens which I had in the backyard of our former home. Maybe they too will mysteriously show up on their own. Or, a neighbor will offer some, as has happened with other plants in the past. I'm more selective today but I definitely will accept white Trillium.
Grasses are reappearing which confirms what L.M. Montgomery said about spring: "That is one good thing about this world ... There are always sure to be more springs."I transplanted this one from the Glenway Prairie and Wildflower Areas. I volunteered at the Glenway during the first year of its development and before Prospect Gardens. That was when I met Sandy, Glenway's crew chief, who encouraged me to develop areas near the Prospect Avenue intersection. Development began about two years later.
Now with shelter-at-home extended through May 26th, some kind of plan for tending the Gardens is needed. The usual once a month community work sessions are impossible. Most likely, as in the past, a solution will emerge and the needs of the Garden will once again be met. Gardening is always an unpredictable journey. I will try to stay balanced as this COVID phase continues to unfold.
A few neighbors offered Hostas or they were left on a neighbor's curb and I hated the thought of them going into the landfill. So now we have a shade garden with Hostas, Jack-in-Pulpits, Jacob's Ladders and several different kinds of ferns, all donated or salvaged.
In short, we started with a plan that favored an unfolding development rather than strict adherence to a plan. Perhaps this approach reflects the Garden's early origins. Before we began intentionally developing Prospect Gardens in 2010, Ernie, a neighbor, and I followed a "Guerrilla Gardening" approach; meaning we would slowly reclaim areas without any plan. Guerrilla Gardening is a world wide movement. I have a book about it; a gift from my daughter, Emily. For more information see https://www.guerrillagardening.org/ggtips.html.
Pictured here is My Grandmother Julia with Jenny, her oldest Grandchild. Jenny made her first Holy Communion. I am guessing that Jenny is about thirteen. Catholics made their First Communion in their early teens. So the date is most likely 1937.
Grandma Julia was an avid gardener, but she was not a guerrilla gardener. Planning began early in spring and about this time of the year, the garden plot along our driveway would be renewed.
Tony, my older brother, tells the story of how he rode and guided the white and black spotted horse while Grandma held down and maneuvered the hand held cultivator. She was a strong women who also worked out in the fields. While small in stature, according to family stories, she outworked any man on any day.
Jenny told the story how she, as a teenager, and Grandma Julia made hay with my Dad during a hot summer; "He was sweating bullets." Mowed hay was loaded on a wagon using a hay loader and brought to the barn. Jenny and Grandma moved the hay in the hot barn loft after a large bunch of hay was released from hay forks that ran along a rail in the peak of the loft. Empty, the forks returned to the wagon on the barn floor and Dad placed them around another punch of hay.
These hay forks were attached to a thick rope which ran through pulleys. The rope was pulled by a horse down the embankment next to the barn. The loaded hay forks rose into the air and eventually screeched across the rail. Dad tripped it and with a bang the hay fell into the mow. The horse backed up the hill while younger sisters and brothers pulled the rope up the hill and stacked it into a neatly rolled pile. The process started all over; all day long in the summer heat.
Several decades later (late 1950s) my older brother Tom had my Dad's role. My brother Louie and I took turns driving the tractor pulling the thick rope down the embankment. You had to drive slowly and steady with no jerking. One of us, along with Ernie, my younger brother, pulled the rope back up the hill as the tractor backed up and then the rope was stacked. A chopper, purchased by Tom and Ma, eventually replaced this way of making hay.
Grandma's huge vegetable garden fed our large family even during winter. We were totally food self-sufficient. Something I think about, our own independent food supply, as I put on my mask and go shopping at Metcalfe's during this pandemic. Yes, being food self-sufficient was hard work, but lack of food never entered our minds or for that matter, concern about not enough toilet paper.
During summer we enjoyed fresh vegetables, watermelon and muskmelons. During winter, potatoes, pumpkins and squash were in our basement on dirt floored areas. Cabbage made into sauerkraut filled stone crocks taller than me when I was a child. Pickles in old butter churns covered with a plate held down with a stone, stood next to the sauerkraut. My Mother's canned apples from our orchard lined wooden shelves along with cherries and peaches that she purchased. Wood was brought into the basement during late fall to feed the two wood stoves.
Visible from our kitchen windows was Grandma Julia's large flower garden. Her garden included roses, many peonies, gladiolas, iris, and geraniums.
I suspect that Grandma Julia also knew how to regain balance throughout her life. She was born on April 15th, 1882 in Chicago and lived in Polish neighborhoods around a large Catholic Church that still stands today, Saint Stanislaus Kosta. At that time it was the country's largest Catholic Church with 3,000 attending several Sunday masses. The young Julia Rudnick moved with her family to a farm near Pulaski sometime in 1887. On May 16, 1899 seventeen year old Julia married my Grandfather Leo who was thirty-four. My oldest sister Jenny said it was an arranged marriage.
Julia and Leo moved a few miles from the Rudnick farm on forty acres purchased form Julia's father, Jacob, about a month after they were married. This was our home farm. Julia worked with Leo to clear the land. She almost lost her only son and my Father, Anton, from scarlet fever when he was a young child. She experienced the 1918 Influenza pandemic when she was thirty-six, and lived during two world wars and the Depression.
My father Anton married my Mother Anna on November 14, 1922. They moved in with Grandma Julia and Grandpa Leo. Both grandparents lived with our family until their deaths. My Mother and Julia had a close relationship and worked together as a team. According to family stories, the two very seldom argued and if they did, they quickly made up and gave each other a hug, saying in Polish "everything is all right."
Grandma Julia witnessed the death of her husband on March 10, 1943. His coffin sat in the living room of our four square house. Six years later on March 2, 1949 her forty-nine year old son and my Father died. Until her death on February 15, 1951 she worked along side my older brother Mike in an all out effort to keep the family together and the family farm going. She worked almost to the time she died. I remember her feeding pigs a few days before she died.
So perhaps regaining balance is in my DNA or at least I have Grandma Julia as a prime example. Incidentally she was kind, generous, and dearly loved all her Grandchildren.
Remembering her and being mindful of spring at Prospect Gardens and elsewhere helps me breath, appreciate beauty and regain a sense of balance during these uncertain times. I end with Mary Oliver's poem that celebrates spring through the eyes of children. May you be safe and healthy.
Children, It's Spring
And this is the lady
Whom everyone loves,
Ms. Violet
in her purple gown
Or, on special occasions,
A dress the color
Of sunlight. She sits
In the mossy weeds and waits
To be noticed.
She loves dampness.
She loves attention.
She loves especially
Whom everyone loves,
Ms. Violet
in her purple gown
Or, on special occasions,
A dress the color
Of sunlight. She sits
In the mossy weeds and waits
To be noticed.
She loves dampness.
She loves attention.
She loves especially
To be picked by careful fingers,
Young fingers, entranced
By what has happened
To the world.
We, the older ones,
Call in Spring,
And we have been through it
Many times.
But there is still nothing
Like the children bringing home
Such happiness
In their small hands.
Young fingers, entranced
By what has happened
To the world.
We, the older ones,
Call in Spring,
And we have been through it
Many times.
But there is still nothing
Like the children bringing home
Such happiness
In their small hands.
