A “Symphony of Your Life” blog with Mark Hardcastle
…Connected events. Coincidental. But no causal relationship. Connected instead by meaning. Like, for instance, my dad and his roses.
In the fall of 1989 I was living in Omaha in the first home I’d ever owned. The house had been neglected, having been taken over by a bank through loan foreclosure. Indeed, the “lawn,” if it could still be called that, had not been mowed since the bank took ownership a couple of years before. I was told by neighbors that the city had come through on two occasions with a bush hog to take down the brush. The condition was reflected in the price, which made it attainable for a young Air Force officer buying his first family home.
The following spring I set to the happy work of bringing the property back up to a livable condition. That included yard work. Lots of yard work. I noticed during the process a row of dog roses growing along the back wall of the house. But they didn’t bloom that spring. Along with everything else, they had been neglected. They were doing well just to stay alive.
They didn’t bloom the following spring, either. I made a mental note to add them to the now shortening list of jobs needing to be done over the course of that summer. But as so often happens, that particular task went begging.
Which brings us to autumn of 1989. We lost Dad that September. Dad had spent a lifetime as an agronomist specializing in weed control. He took great satisfaction in helping farmers increase their yields, and enjoyed seeing results on a global scale. And he loved his roses. We only had a few at the house in which I grew up, but I remember strolling with him through the demonstration gardens at the agricultural experiment station where he spent his working hours.
It’s been more than 25 years and I still miss him. But as autumn of 1989 descended into winter then became spring of 1990 the grief was still fresh and raw. I found therapy in turning my thoughts and energies to the continuing work of restoring the now lush and green lawn of our first house. And then, together with all the other blossoms of spring, the roses bloomed.
I had not touched them. Zero cultivation, no fertilizer. Nothing. There was no reason for this spring to have been any different from any other.
Except that Dad, who had loved his roses, had passed into another realm. And I heard a message with my heart as clearly as if it had come to me out loud. Dad was saying, “It’s ok. All is well.” And there, at that moment, was my beginning of peace.
So let’s bring it home: Conclusion…