Pumpkins, Peonies and Prairie Smoke

Peter's Puzzle Heart
May 27, 1964 - March 10, 1996

Peter was knocking me on the head for days but I was slow to catch on. 


I should have felt his presence in a week filled with pumpkins, peonies and prairie smoke but somewhere between the yard and the computer, I was sidetracked by things that didn't matter as much as remembering the birthday of someone I love still. Peter wouldn't have forgotten. He sent cards for birthdays, anniversaries and mostly for no reason at all but to say hello and let us know how he was doing. I should have remembered Peter's 46th birthday on May 27, but it slipped my mind until today when Jeff mentioned seeing a red cardinal in the yard and thinking of his brother. 


Peter was a landscape designer by heart and trade, a self-taught architect of the earth who poured his emotions into his creations. I had several chances to remember Peter this week.


I should have remembered Peter when the first pumpkin seeds sprouted in pots of dirt out back or when a large and lovely bouquet of white, pink and crimson peonies filled the room with the sweet fragrance of springtime. I should have laughed out loud and thought about Peter when I looked up prairie smoke, the peculiar plant we saw at Lurie Garden that resembles a pink troll doll with a head of wild wispy hair. Ever a California boy, he would have laughed too and planted the native Illinois wildflower on his San Francisco rooftop.   

When a garden is more than a garden

It was a typical spring day that would have been perfect if only the sun shone a little warmer and the wind blew a little softer. Still it was too fine a day to stay indoors that day in May when the earth poured forth its native glory in modest mauves, royal purples and vivid fuchsias. Less showy than  summer gardens where yellows and reds shout out for attention, the first blooms of spring appear on the heels of winter and let out a collective sigh that signals the changing season. Be patient they seem to say, breathe deeply and savor the sweetness in the air, the dewy fresh mowed grass and newborn leaves that glisten brighter now. This snapshot could be anywhere - a country field, grandmother's yard, Monet's garden at Giverny. 


                                                                                                                               

Look closer. A hint of stainless steel ribbons (The Jay Pritzker Pavillion) and high rise structures suggest someplace different.

Still to this day, six years after its completion, I am awed by The Lurie Garden at Millennium Park in Chicago. The five-acre perennial paradise is an oasis in the city.

 A place to reflect, relax and recharge. 

A place to learn and love. 

A place to be.

Birthday Laugh

Happy Birthday to me!

A boy named Angel

This took me by surprise.

Angel retelling the story of Marco Flamingo Under the Sea to Marlene in the way only a 5-year-old can, his knowing finger pointing out familiar words, words that only moments ago I read to his small circle.

Marlene wandered over from another group, a silent, curious 3-year-old with soulful brown eyes and pigtails hoisted high on her head. With the flip of a page and the turn of a phrase, Angel transported his audience of one back under the sea where Marco swam with dolphins and slept on a whale's back. Looking like a miniature teacher in his button down shirt, Angel captured Marlene's attention - and mine.   

 

This sweet and simple act that resonated through the Head Start classroom as a sign that we made a difference - a small but mighty difference - the Operation Early Reading ladies from Assistance League of Chicagoland West.

The Stinking Rose

I've come to realize - even before my first garlic harvest - that shoving a dried out clove into the ground for a bountiful summer crop was, simply put, an act of faith. 


There I was in mid-October, methodically pushing the pointy side up, root side down a couple inches deep into the rich tractor tilled soil. Like guardian angels warding off the winter chill, Jeff and I placed a thick and fluffy blanket of hay over the beds to protect the hibernating garlic from the freezing rain and snow. Then we left.


Unlike a summer garden, I won't see the real fruits of my labor for several more months, or at all, my heart taunts me with the fear of an underground disaster. But the tender green shoots popping through to the sun are a sure sign that spring has come again and with it, the promise of garlic enough to savor and share - garlic with lyrical names like German Porcelain*, German White*, Music* and Linda's, garlic so fresh and flavorful that Linda said I'll never buy the grocery store variety again.  


*Garlic ordered from Peaceful Valley Farm and Garden Supply in Grass Valley, CA www.groworganic.com  

She Said Yes

He planned it all this son of mine. The boy who turned his homework in on time and was well thought of by teachers learned the fundamentals of cut, color, clarity and carat to make a beautiful ring selection for his lady love lizzy. 
The boy who eschewed designer clothes for the cost budgeted his money - agreeing to pay off the ring in six months, knowing deep in his heart that he could never wait that long.  


"How do you feel now," I asked that day in January when he reached us driving from Phoenix to Vegas.  
"Anxious," I heard him say across the miles.
Not the "what did I do - I can't breathe" kind of anxious, but the "I'm so excited - I can hardly wait" kind of anxious.


But wait he did - not the full six months but four. He told her mother, asked her father and let us know his plans. 


"Do you have a speech?" his father asked. 
"No. I know what to say," replied this son of mine who always took the stage confidently singing and acting, while my heart leaped out of my chest just watching him defend Maria's honor in West Side Story or sing for sherry in Pirates of Penzance. This son of mine who brought tears to my eyes crooning Italian love songs knew how to ask his one true love to marry him. At Sunset Point. On the way to Flagstaff. Where they met. And that's all I know because this is their story not mine. 

Cyciley

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wildflower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour. --William Blake


                                           Cyciley Marianthe Cortopassi
                                           April 14, 1982 - April 18, 1982