Gardens

A Glimmer of Hope

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 2, 2026 category Furry Friends, Gardens, Walks

My recent walks have not been philanthropic. I’ve had to do it, and thus it feels like work. Joe broke his ankle, so the walking of three dogs multiple times a day has fallen to me. I’m cranky and not proud of it.

Recent snowstorms and frigid weather have kept things hidden. Though some things are unseen, they still remain. A recent thaw exposed a used coffee cup, fallen leaves, and a plethora of pine needles beneath a large tree. Things will come to the surface.

The cold weather returned today, reminding me that winter remains. As do the large snow piles that still block access to the sidewalks, causing pedestrians to enter the roadway to get by.

I admit that I haven’t looked up often-enough these days. But sometimes there’s a glimmer of hope in the dried-out grass. Today I spotted it in this crocus, so narrow, so frail, that I was unable to get a clear photo. But it was there and I felt it was just for me.

I sense a change in the air. The earlier sunrise. The tinge of yellow where forsythia will soon bloom. My neighbor digging in her garden. Glimmers of hope.

Just in Case

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 12, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

I scrubbed the hummingbird feeder and filled it with fresh nectar over a week ago. Since that time, not one has come. I knew they wouldn’t. I knew they had left, but I did it just in case.

Years ago, when my daughter bought her own house and moved out, I continued to set the table with four dishes, at first instinctually, and then, just in case.

Last times are hard whether we know it’s goodbye, or whether we realize their loss sometime later. When was the last time I held Rockland’s hand while crossing the street? I had taken, for a while, to writing things down—just in case. But now I purpose to notice and simply enjoy the moments.

This morning, I listened to the caws of Blue Jays, sipped my cooling coffee, watched Graycie resting on a chair, and Ivy sleeping on the love seat on my screened porch.

The hummingbird feeder remains empty of visitors while the nearby zinnias continue to flourish. I could take down the feeder and bring it in for the winter, but I leave it a while longer.

Just in case.

The Gives and Takes

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Sep 26, 2025 category Gardens

Fall has arrived and with it less daylight and more squirrels; less activity at the bird feeders and more leaves on the streets. The morning temperatures are cooler and the evening air more crisp. It’s been six days since I’ve seen a hummingbird, but I change the nectar in the hopes it will entice a passerby to come and drink.

I am surprised by the bright colors of the zinnia, typically considered summer hues. The pinks and the yellows glorious in the setting sun. My moon flower has been generous this year; I counted 31 flowers in one night. I marvel at the size of the blooms, given fully for one short night and then curled up to die once the sun rises. For such a time as this.

I’ve taken to an attitude of thankfulness. I walk one of my labs each morning and tend to notice everything. Sometimes it’s the trash thrown on the side of the road; sometimes it’s the weeds on the other side of fences. I feel offended that the people who live on the other side of those fences put their trash cans on our street while their yards remain pristine. I catch myself in this conversation and I tell myself to see the beauty. I notice a volunteer flower pushing its way through a crack in the pavement, the three crows who spend time in the highest tree tops, the bees that enjoy the wildflowers near the gully. In particular, I notice the goldenrod growing out into the street where cars have to move to go around it, and I smile.

Fall gives and it takes away. While we lose warmth and light, we gain colors that transmit both. It’s a time to open windows and feel the breeze enter our homes. It’s a chance to appreciate the offering of the harvest and to hear the crinkle of leaves before they release themselves to the earth.

It’s full of surprises, as overnight the gift of bright orange mushrooms appear on the lawn of a house on the boulevard. I politely ask Ivy to stay back.

And, while my cone flowers have long since produced pink flowers, it’s still time to receive the gift of late summer roses from a dear friend.

I greet you, Fall, with all you have to offer and with all you remove. You are welcome here.

Meeting Virginia

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 20, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

It’s why I walk.

I met Virginia today. More accurately, I met her a couple of years ago before I got sick, but I don’t think she remembers me. She was standing by her front door and I had picked up her newspaper and handed it to her so she wouldn’t have to walk down the three steps to gather it herself. I had seen her neighbor do it for her, so now when I see her paper on the wet grass or on her front walkway or even at the curb near the street, I pick it up, fold it, and slip it into the entry door handle. That way, all she has to do is open the screen door of her front porch, reach to her left and retrieve her paper.

Virginia is 95 years old. She lives alone, but does not appear lonely. Today, I was a half block away from her home when I saw her navigating her front steps to get the newspaper. I hurried along with Franklin, crossing the street, but she had already reached the paper and with the use of her cane and side banister, was already walking back up the steps to her porch door. I was a house away when I said, “Good morning, Virginia! You beat me to it today!”

“So, you’re the one!” she said. “I didn’t know who it was that was bringing up my paper. I wanted to write a note and leave it on the door saying, ‘Thank you!’” She stood upright and her white hair was combed neatly. She was already dressed for the day, and on this cooler morning, wore a white sweater that fit her beautifully. She invited me to come in and I could think of nothing better.

Franklin waited on the enclosed porch while Virginia took me into her living room. She turned on every lamp in the room. The walls were pink and she noted that while the house was built in the 1930s, the walls still had no cracks in them. She went through a litany of colors that the walls had been painted over the years, but seemed content with the current shade. The couch was hers; the chairs were all given to her by family members who had no more use for them. She said it with a smile.

She took me into each room: the kitchen with its large pantry and oversized dining table; the bedroom which was formerly two rooms, but when her daughter moved out, she had it made into one larger room with two clothes closets. I noticed that her bed was made and she pointed out that she’s made her bed every day since she was seven or eight years old. Her routine was to get up, make the bed, wash up, get dressed, and put on earrings. She used to work for the local board of education and was accustomed to dressing up.

She and her husband moved here when she was 31. She says it’s an easy house to live in. It’s where she raised her four children—one of whom died of dementia. She invited me to sit, but I needed to get back to my walk with Franklin. She told me to stop anytime if I needed a drink or to use the bathroom.

I gathered up Franklin and stepped outside of Virginia’s home. We continued on the downhill slope of Brandywine Boulevard, past Tom who called out to me to pick some figs—they ripen a little at a time and you have to get to them. I returned a call to my three-year-old granddaughter who called while I was at Virginia’s. She and my daughter call me on her way to school. The sound of her voice is music to my soul.

I looked from Franklin to the sky to the cars bustling by. To the buses on their practice routes before school begins next week. I look at the lawns and bushes and peeled bark of sycamore trees. And, I wonder about the people I pass—the ones I can see and the ones behind closed doors. The ones like Virginia.

Overgrown Summer

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 17, 2025 category Gardens

Summer has overtaken its bounds. Walkways all but disappear beneath weighty branches of echinacea, while moonflower vines reach out to connect to whatever they can climb. The trellis I provided has long since become inadequate.

I no longer look at overgrowth as something to be managed. I prefer to see it as food, protection, and a gathering place for those who visit or call my garden home.

Isn’t that what we all long for?

Summer Mornings

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 8, 2025 category Gardens, Stories

I met a friend for coffee this morning: mine was a cappuccino with whole milk, hers a cappuccino with miso caramel. It was quiet at 7:15, just after opening. We chose a table in the corner. I faced the side of the cafe and she the tree-lined window. We’d been colleagues, but have now become friends. We laugh. We tear up. We share moments of our lives that we didn’t know about each other when I was a volunteer at her school, and she, my supervisor. We ask each other questions like what we would like to do next, or after this, or some day. My response was to write. She made me promise I would.

When I got home, I put on my white sneakers, leashed-up Franklin, and headed out the door. The weather was cooler than most days this summer and we moved at a quick pace. Coming up the long hill, I saw Tom walking out to his car and he stopped to chat. He pointed to the tree whose branches had grown over his sidewalk, causing walkers to step into the road to pass by.

“I’ll be cutting that branch down when the fruit ripens. I don’t want the town to come and tell me I’m blocking the sidewalk. Here, pick some. Take that one over there, too.”

“Are they peaches, Tom?”

“Nectarines. They’re in the peach family, though. Here’s the figs. You know, the house near you, they have a fig tree. On the right.”

“I know! I have a fig tree, too, in the back.”

“What? Who died?”

“Nobody died.”

“Did you say somebody died?”

“No, Tom.”

Tom wears a black ski cap, even in summer. He started gardening when he came to this country from Italy. He prefers to grow food instead of grass. One of his neighbors is not happy that he planted three nectarine trees near her property line.

“She’s worried they will grow over onto her property. So what? They grow over, you just cut them. What’s the big deal?”

He asked if I wanted to see the back garden, and led me down the driveway and around the house. He told me to wait while he went inside to get a gathering basket and a white bag. Every inch of space had a plant. I noticed gourds and tomatoes and grapes. Tom told me he was angry with the birds for eating the grapes; he’ll have to wait another year now to make wine.

He began to cut bok choy leaves and asked how I cook it. I said I sauté it. He said that’s the best way. He directed me to put the nectarines into the white bag along with the fig I picked for Joe. (I had already eaten one.) He laid the bok choy on top, directing me to clean it good as there was a lot of dirt in there, and topped it off with basil, insisting that I smell it first. He added that the next time he’d give me some mint.

It’s getting later in the summer and lots of things are overgrown. Some bushes and tall weeds block the new stop sign at the corner. Most people only slow down and keep going. I notice the crepe myrtles blooming around town. The petals fall to the ground and cover the grass in crimson. Along my street, I spotted some wild raspberries and remembered the blackberries that grew near the pond in my childhood neighborhood. I imagine the birds are happy for such a treat.

I am distracted thinking of my son flying to another country to start a new job—a one-year position. The emotions are mixed as I am excited for him, and also sad at the distance. I will miss him. My granddaughter turned three this week. Her utter joy over her birthday brings me to tears. Her excitement when unwrapping gifts, and asking, “Ohhh…what is it?” makes my heart want to explode.

Change of seasons, new growth, loss, wonder at what’s ahead. I marvel at how things change so quickly, and at the same time, remain the same. New jobs. Dreams. Some day. Wonder. What will I do next?

Sometimes it’s all so big, that I slow it down and simply sip my cappuccino. Or walk my big yellow dog.

Wildly Alive

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 6, 2025 category Gardens

I know now the reason for the rain. It is shown in the kaleidoscope of color in gardens, on edges of fields, and along busy roads. The conditions are perfect for what happens every summer, but what should never be taken for granted.

Subtle only in stature, the fragrance of lavender fills a room. I invite my grandchildren to rub their hands along the green leaves and then smell their fingers. Lavender is best enjoyed that way.

A month earlier than least year, the first moonflower made its appearance last night. With the last of the sun’s rays welcoming the evening, the white paper-thin blossom fully emerged. Unexpected, it startled me when I stepped outside with one of the dogs. I stopped for a photo and a drink of its perfume.

The first hibiscus arrived, as well, and for the rest of the summer, the color fuschia will fill the garden surrounding the patio. Cut nearly to the ground in fall, it emerges strong and hardy with leaves green as emeralds and flowers as large as dinner plates.

The grateful bee finds sustenance among the echinacea which has spread along the wall beside the driveway. Again, the rain and nothing more. I greet it with a simple hello as I pass by, a gift I do not deserve, but am thankful for. Along with the lavender It allows me the pleasure of some cuts to bring inside.

Like fireworks, the colors explode, abundant and un-shy. Why, even the oxalis triangularis longs to join the parade.

Rain. Sunshine. A kind word. And, more grace than we can handle.

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.