Gardens

City of Trees

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 14, 2025 category Gardens

Joe and I went to DC recently to visit our son, Joey; it was our last visit before graduation. It is prime cherry blossom season, but we didn’t go to the Basin. Instead we drove through neighborhoods lined with red bud trees interspersed between bright green leaves on unknown trees on our way to the campus at Catholic University of America.

Everywhere we looked, there was color. It was hard to look at all of it without stopping to see one tree at a time. While DC is only 100 miles from our home in Delaware, I noticed some differences in the landscape. For one, there were so many ginkgo biloba trees! I’ve only noticed them in the fall when their fan-shaped leaves are golden-colored. But, oh, in spring they are lime green. And, they are stunning.

We saw magnolias, cherries, dogwoods. I recall the story of the dogwood petals representing a cross—fitting as we enter Holy Week.

What was most profound to me was the relationship between the various trees. Where I live, the red buds are solitary, not grouped together. They stand out as ornamental, as one of a kind. In DC, there were many, and they shared their beauty with the green of neighboring trees. I saw the value of companionship as they virtually held hands down long and winding streets and lanes. It struck me that their beauty was enhanced by one another.

We returned home and the next morning I went to our local park to see our one gingko tree. Solitary. Huge. I can’t imagine how long it’d been there. It appeared as a grandfather, tall and wise, yet covered in the same lime green leaves as the ones we saw in DC.

Magnificent in its grandeur. I hope it wasn’t lonely.

Sunday: Birds, Blooms, and Old Dogs

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 30, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

I give in to the luxury of fatigue. After two busy days, I accept that I have little reserves and can visualize a literal lack of oxygen in red blood cells flowing through my body. Rest will replenish. I succumb to it.

I finished a book today. It took a year to read. Last March, I received The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year by Margaret Renkl. There was no card or indication of who had sent it, but, when I opened the box and looked at the cover, I felt the sender knew me. I scanned through the book and thought, “This is the book I’ve wanted to write!” I kissed the cover, holding it close and took in the fragrance of its pages. I later discovered my friend, Keturah, had sent it. She bought a copy for herself, as well. She and I are kindred spirits.

Every Sunday, for 52 weeks, I read a chapter about birds, about the author’s life, about the weather where she lived, about the season, about the flow of nature. I dotted the end of the chapters with my own thoughts, my own observations of my own birds in my own backyard.

I texted Keturah when I’d finished it today. She responded that she had finished the book, as well, and said she might read it again. I had already logged the book into my list of read-titles and placed it on my shelf with other bird books. After her comment, I retrieved the book and placed it back on the porch where I will start reading it again next Sunday morning. I imagine we will learn new things reading it a second time because we are changed from reading it a first time.

I notice the birds are more active and certainly more vocal this morning. The house sparrows are particularly boisterous as they compete for space in my neighbor’s overgrown hedge. The goldfinches are yellowing before my eyes. Gone is the muted tone of winter; enter, the golden glow of spring.

I’ve begun using an app on my phone called “Merlin Bird ID”. My son-in-law told me about it, sharing that it identifies the sounds and songs of particular birds. Now I know who is singing even when I can’t see him. One thing I’ve noticed is the the number of song variations the birds have—particularly the northern cardinal. It chirps, sings, calls. Short, long, longer calls. There have been more flocking birds, as well: brown-headed cowbirds, European starlings, common grackles. I let them have their fun and then leave the feeders empty for a while to allow them to move on, before refilling.

Spring happens quickly. Much changes one day to the next. The view from my desk shows the continuing growth of the red buds to the left and the opening of the purple flowers on the rhododendron to the right. Straight ahead I see my friend’s house through the backyard of another neighbor. I see her red door and the blue car in her driveway. When her door is open, I see the white face of her older golden retriever as he rests there looking out to the street through the storm door. Soon, the trees will fill in and I’ll no longer have that view. I will miss it.

Our dog, Stella, is 11 years old today. We rescued her three years ago. We were told she was five. Our vet aged her up from there. She is the smallest of our three dogs, weighing in at a slight 9.8 pounds to their 65 pounds each.

I love dogs of all ages. I adore puppy breath and the awkward stages of adolescence. Our two labs are five years old and are beginning to settle into themselves. But, I have a special place in my heart for the older dogs. For the ones with the gray muzzles and the opaque eyes. For the ones with the creaky joints and missing teeth. For the ones who have lived and seen and grew to be beloved. My daughter said goodbye to her German Shepherd, Jada, a couple of weeks ago. Jada, who had been with her for 14 years. She welcomed Angela’s husband, their three children, and three other dogs. She had a large pack and she led it well. Nothing makes me smile more than to see their faces, like the wrinkles on an old woman, knowing they have led many. These old girls like Stella and Jada have been matriarchs. Their loss is great.

Spring moves steadily on. Buds emerge, birds build nests, kids crowd baseball and soccer fields while those who love them cheer heartily. All growing, all changing, as we join them at our own pace.

The Barrel of Buds

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 25, 2025 category Gardens

Like a train barreling down the tracks, buds have begun not just to emerge, but to dominate the wintry landscape. I don’t need a calendar to tell me that spring has arrived. It is everywhere and all at once. It is like a discovery of color, like gifts that won’t all fit beneath the Christmas tree and have to be stacked up and spread beyond its borders.

The forsythia in my neighbor’s yard is one of the first plants to emerge. I observe the way in which it holds onto drops of water after a long spring rain. She welcomes me to cut its branches to adorn my dining table. It is extravagant and no more lovely decoration can be had.

I take my phone on walks and stop to take photos along the way. My English Lab, Ivy, is not as impressed with the tulip magnolia as I am. Not even its pink and white blossoms keep her from finding more enticing things on the ground.

I sit in the sun on my back patio, starting a book about moss. I share the space with house sparrows and goldfinches who flap their wings in an effort to go to and leave from my backyard feeders. I find it a privilege to have them nearby. No matter how many photos I take, I can’t capture the immensity of the tulip poplar and the buds that burgeon against the blue sky. I hear the airplanes overhead, heading west out of Philadelphia International Airport.

I get up to observe what else is awakening on my property. The tall bush with the feathery white flowers reaches all the way to my loft bedroom. I enjoy seeing it from the vantage point of the window. From the ground, I am able to capture the movement of its petals in the breeze. Each year, I wonder at its name. Last year, one of my neighbors took a photo and looked it up on an app. I wish I’d written down the name.

The daffodils have opened into a welcoming bouquet near the front steps. That along with the dog flag given to me by my daughter, tells a lot about what matters here.

Every stage of the red bud is magnificent. The tree is covered with emerging buds, still dark in color as they prepare for their full awakening. My desk is on the other side of the window looking out upon it. I just watched a squirrel dig up a hidden nut, climb the tree and enjoy his meal in the comfort of its branches.

Even the Senecio and Calathea enjoy the view. I wonder, by the way the branches reach, if they would rather be outdoors. I feel that way myself, sometimes.

The Always of Spring

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 8, 2025 category Gardens

It’s easy to identify a baby bird; it is the one with the piteous cry, the bed-head, and the unusual body movements. This morning I observed a young House Sparrow sitting in the leafless tree near my screened porch. It let out singular cries, certainly sounding like an attempt at finding its adult. One never came, and after many minutes baby flew away.

Spring is near. I sense it in the position of the sun, in the sound of the birdsong, in the purple flowers popping out of still-brown grass. It is in the forsythia shrub on the side of my neighbor’s house, with the tinge of gold just beneath the surface, like the hint of sunrise when the sky is still dark.

It is in the irises given by a dear friend which spread year-to-year to fill the side garden near the path through my yard, the one taken by my other neighbor and her dog as a shortcut to her side door.

Anticipation is the season. I hear it in the sound of the dog’s bark and the child’s scream as she plays with friends in her backyard. It is most evident at the bird feeders in the flurry of wings and mating cries of adults.

Spring is an exemplar of that which lies ahead. Of the what’s-to-come. Of the there-is-more. Of the there-is-always-hope.

Always.

Our New Year’s Walk

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 2, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

When I was growing up, New Year’s Day was not a celebrated holiday in our home. Rather, it signified the end of the fun. My grandmother and Al had left to return to Yonkers, school was getting ready to start, and worst-of-all, my mother swept through the house like a tornado taking down the tree and any remnants that existed of Christmas—tinsel and all.

I’m still not a huge fan of the day. I don’t like resolutions, and looking back at the past year makes me sentimental. One thing I’ve adapted over the years is getting into the woods on New Year’s Day. Many parks have taken up the act by sponsoring events for families and pets alike.

Yesterday, Joe and I participated in our own special walk along with our nine-year-old grandson, Rockland, and our unknown-of-age dog, Stella. Rockwood Park is near our home and often a go-to for walks. We started with a book walk of Tree Hugs (Abrazados), through which Rockland ran at a rapid pace. We continued through the gardens surrounding the museum which we entered so he could get a hot cider and a protein bar.

Since he was little, he’s been climbing the Weeping Elm that is tucked away in a far part of the gardens. Yesterday was no exception. What was different this time was that he lost his footing, slid along the gnarled trunk and landed on all fours like a cat. It was quite impressive.

We continued into the wooded area—my favorite. He can identify a beech tree by the smooth trunk that looks like sand, and sadly, by the initials carved into its smooth surface. The Sycamore is one of my favorites with its peeling, camouflaged bark, and spiky seed balls hanging from its branches. I notice that there are few birds to be seen and no woods animals in sight.

After our time among the trees, we made our way back to the museum where visitors had written in chalk along the road—Happy New Year—and other such greetings. It felt good to be with others, but also to be our own little group. Stella garners a lot of attention because of her diminutive size and graying muzzle. Joe is only happy to speak to anyone who wants to know more about her.

Rockland and I wander, and notice. He finds the sleigh where we take photos. I think about the treasure of being with him. I consider the first bird I saw this year—the wren; and his—the house sparrow. I like marking these moments and wonder about what lies ahead.

My energy wanes as I suggest we head back to the car. Rockland runs ahead at high speed leaning into the curved walkway that proceeds down a steep path from the park to the lot. Stella tries hard to catch up with him. I marvel at how fast he is. I am thankful I can walk and feel the winter sun on my skin. I wonder if I will ever be able to run like that again.

We arrive home where we are greeted by the two labs who stayed behind. The lights on our Christmas tree remain lit. I enjoy the sparkle and the extra light they emit. My decorations will come down soon, but not today. Today, I will embrace both the gift of 2024 and the gift of 2025. I will put my feet up and live in the moment I’ve been given, enjoying each and every breath.

Reflection

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Nov 27, 2024 category Gardens, Stories

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. I know this because my Christmas Cactus flowered. I don’t ask questions, I don’t wonder about the calendar, I simply accept that this is the time it flowers each year.

My refrigerator is full of items to make an antipasto platter to bring to my daughter’s home tomorrow. My version of the traditional Italian appetizer will include cherry tomatoes on the vine and cotton candy grapes and oversized, red strawberries because my grandchildren like them. My son is home from graduate school and when we sit down at the table tomorrow, my family will be under one roof. For that, I am thankful.

Joe and I walked our three dogs this morning at Brandywine Park. I breathed fresh air, moved my body, observed the dichotomy of the creek, the rose garden, the iron bridge, and the tall office buildings. We walked beneath the underpass of I-95, listening to cars and trucks roaring by overhead. I stopped to photograph the reflection of the aqueduct, noting the beauty that extended beyond the structure itself, to the water beneath. In the process, I saw my own reflection cast by the sun behind me, making me look even taller than usual.

It made me wonder about reflections. As we stood there, I noticed Franklin looking up at me, his eyes questioning me. Were we continuing our walk? Did I have more treats for him? I thought about my love for him evident in his eyes.

Near the end of our walk, I stopped at a magnificent, gnarly tree. I marveled at its mystique. I wondered for how many years people had stopped to observe it. As I stared, ready to photograph its beauty, I spotted the gray squirrel camouflaged in the crook of the branches, the sun spotlighting its face.

It’s a time of year for reflection. Of this year, of years past. Of how today will be reflected years from now. I want to live my life with the kind of love that makes others feel cherished. And, like my Christmas Cactus, it doesn’t have to comport with an assigned time or season. It can bloom right now.

Sounds of Seasons

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Nov 19, 2024 category Gardens

The sounds of leaf blowers abound. I struggle with the level of intensity, of the obsession with cleanliness at the expense of chaos. Most leaves are off the trees and I hope soon the sounds will settle. I focus on reminders of what is lovely—the colors of leaves, the movements of their fall, the smells of necessary decay. I shift the roar of mowers and blowers to the background in an effort to establish peace.

I reflect, instead, on my newly-born grandson, of his measured movements, his open mouth, his cries. I wonder at the miracle of his life, of how his focus is only on food and comfort. I marvel at the simplicity of his life, on the vulnerability and trust he has in my daughter as he rests in her arms.

I pray for him from my porch. I watch the blue jays squawk atop the feeder while the white-throated sparrows peck at the fallen seeds beneath. I wonder at the level of preparation, the acceptance of the fallow season, the anticipation of what lies ahead.

I recognize the need for the seasons—those of wanting, those of movement, those of rest. I’ve learned that in the wild a dog will hunt, eat, clean, and rest, in that order. There is a rhythm to its existence. Likewise, there is a season of growth and rest for all of us. As I watch that cycle play out, I learn that acceptance of these seasons is imperative. And, while I wait, I rest, in anticipation of what’s to come.

Beauty Intensified

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 28, 2024 category Gardens

My mornings feel a bit different now. The air is cooler on the porch and I welcome the warmth from my coffee cup, blue blanket, and space heater. I am recovering from a wicked head cold that has left me wiped out but grateful that my bone marrow and mighty white blood cells are fighting for me.

Every day is more crisp. The tulip poplar’s lost half its leaves. The ones remaining are a mixture of green and gold. The cat birds are gone, though I’ve yet to see the juncos. There are a pair of wrens that visit. I am partial to the wren. I like the unique motor-sound it emits. It’s the only bird who makes eye contact with me.

It’s hard to miss the beauty of the trees and sky: a view from a window, a walk up the street, a drive to a nearby park. I feel the need to squint from the intensity of color and clear blue skies; the cool air dries my eyes and throat. Yet, I embrace it all, not wanting to miss one moment. Joe and I took the three dogs to a local park. He walked Ivy and Stella; I accompanied Franklin. We walked the long path that leads from the parking area to the woods. Before we reached the entrance to the shaded trees, I was stopped by the most beautiful expanse of trees. My husband, Ivy, and Stella continued forward but I was glued to the ground. I couldn’t take my eyes off the sight of the orange, red, gold, brown, and green. I grabbed my phone and attempted to capture the sight. What made it even more remarkable was the moon visible in the blue sky above.

We didn’t walk far, but enough to soak up the energy of the woods. If we stood still we could hear the sound of the falling leaves. They don’t fall like a cannon ball would. They take their time and dance on the air, moving side to side, and tumbling one end over the other until they land, gracefully, on the ground.

We turned to leave, but at a slower pace. As we neared the parking lot, I looked back at the row of trees I had photographed earlier. From this vantage point it did not have the magnificence of seeing it as it looked earlier around the bend. In my mind’s eye, I imagined it, though. Perspective matters.

Settle Into Fall

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 1, 2024 category Gardens

Oh, a good place to settle—to watch the activity, to observe the migration—the absence of summer friends.

The cooler days, the crisper air bring reasons to seek warmth. Long-sleeved shirts, fire pits, butternut squash soup, sage tea. Pumpkins and goldenrod and bright red berries, methodically plucked from evergreens by cardinals and not-as-often-seen catbirds.

Overgrown foliage and scattered leaves along paths, comfort food, and respite for weary travelers and those who remain to eat of its fruit and settle into its warmth.

Welcome, Autumn

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Sep 22, 2024 category Gardens

It’s the first day of autumn—it arrives at 8:44 am. EST. These moments have meaning and I like celebrating the comings and goings of significant events. In 1985, I led my office in a countdown to spring and cheered with my co-workers at the coming of new life, more sunlight, and longer days.

The mornings are crisp, while afternoons heat up. I saw a hummingbird yesterday even before the sun had fully lit the sky. This morning I saw another, one who stopped fully to sip from 3 of the 4 available holes in the nectar feeder. The goldfinches have stopped picking at the seeds of the echinacea where charcoal-black heads have long-ago replaced the hot-pink blooms.

There is a cardinal at the safflower cylinder. With plenty of room to spare, he squawks at the sparrows who dare to join him for a meal. His feathers are too light to be a male, too dark to be a female.

Last night I counted 14 blooms on the moonflower plant out front. I numbered them in the fading light and drank in their fragrance before bed. I remain in awe of the presentation—of what it takes to be so glorious for only one night.

Welcome, autumn. Welcome, colorful leaves and frantic squirrels. Welcome, darker evenings and cooler days. Welcome, activity of harvest, rush of migration, and deep-in-the-blanket rest.