In August, when the whole world was ripe and blooms had swollen to blossoms, we took a drive through the country.
We passed a house well set back from the road. In front of the house was a fairyland of flowers. This was no cottage garden running wild and sweet, it was a planned, precise, aisled garden. Well plotted rows of dahlias and roses ran obediently along from the house to the road.
I gasped when I saw it and shouted, "Look!"
It was so lush, so beautiful, I wanted the kids to see it. I slowed the car and let everyone get a good look. Grant was in the front seat and as we drove away I asked him, "Wasn't that beautiful?"
He paused and then answered, "It looked like a lot of work to me."
I had to laugh because my logical son is so different from his passionate mother.
A month later I was sitting in an airport waiting for my plane to Alaska to board. Grant and Rowan sat in seats across from me. They were reading something together. Grant had his arm draped casually, big-brother like, around Rowan's shoulder. Rowan would look up and he and Grant would share a laugh. It was a beautiful picture and I sat soaking it in. Then I realized that I wasn't the only one soaking. The woman sitting next to me was watching the boys also.
She looked away from the boys, found my eyes, and said, "Someone put a lot of work into those boys."
She was right.
Raising these children well is a lot of work.
But, oh, the beauty of a well tended garden is more than enough reward for this passionate mother.
A cup of tea and a nap are also appreciated.
Also, a good book.
I've always wanted a grand-father clock.