Hosta 'El Niño' & Rosa 'Darcey Bussell' 31 October 2022

Many who know me frequently tell me to get to the point. From the point of view of my blog I can explain that hard copy magazines for which I used to work had the problem of space. I was edited. But on the internet space is infinite. This means that I can diverge in as many directions I want. This blog which is about the seasons of the year with emphasis on the current fall will diverge.

Because of my Roman Catholic education at a boarding high school in Austin I was given a splendid explanation and knowledge of Catholic doctrine. I will not reveal here my presents thoughts or beliefs.

Rosemary and I traveled with frequency to Mexico with our granddaughter Rebecca. She had a curiosity beyond her years. When we visited old Mexican baroque churches she asked me lots. I was always able to answer her questions. One incident I remember very well is one where she wanted me to explain every Station of the Cross (14 of them).     

The connection with the theme of seasons is that in Spanish estación is not only the14 in the church or a railroad station but also every one of the four seasons.

Just like in a Roman Catholic Church you stop at every Station to think of its meaning,  I believe that I do just that when our seasons begin.

My friend John Lekich has this funny idea that at the beginning of every season we stop to reflect and this gives us an exclusive passport of doing nothing. I sort of agree,

But since my Rosemary’s death in  the waning days of fall on December 9, 2020 I look at these seasons in a different way. Some of these ways are pleasant (sort of). I remember what we would do in the garden at the start of each one of them. And that Kerrisdale garden was so lovely. The seasons came and went and we never thought of a winter where it would all end for one of us.

Now I look at those days and seasons as halcyon days of sun, our beautiful garden and our two granddaughters running into it with delight.

This fall, now I am not sure exactly how to cut back some of the perennials. Rosemary was an expert and with scissors in hand she did a splendid job. Now as I do this I reflect on a presence missed, an absent presence, I call it.    

Spring will not be that happy time of expectation and summer will not be one of the glory of our roses and their scent.

Winter in its coldness will be one where I will again miss that December 9 parting with Rosemary and knowing that the only relief will come with my personal oblivion. I am 80