Gardens

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.

Firsts & Lasts

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Sep 15, 2024 category Gardens, Stories

It’s a quiet Sunday morning. I hear the hum of cars along I-495 though less than a typical rush hour morning. I arrived too late for the church bells announcing 7:00 mass at St. Helena’s. I settle in with coffee and rosary beads. I quiet Ivy as she barks at passing squirrels and rogue cats.

I observe my neighbor’s tulip poplar, filled with yellowing leaves, as it leans heavily toward another neighbor’s house. The back drive is carpeted in the leaves already fallen. I wrap myself in a throw blanket knowing soon I will be wearing coats out here.

Fall contains both beginnings and endings, firsts and lasts. It is particularly true as I watch for the hummingbirds. I saw the first one at my feeder on July 24. Since then, there have been regular visits. I learned only today that males do not show their ruby throats until after the first molt, so the ones I thought were female might well have been young males. I could distinguish between two of them as one would sit on the edge of the feeder and eat slowly and methodically; the other flapped its wings, remaining airborne, slowing only to stick its beak in the hole to gather nectar.

It’s been close to two days since I’ve seen either of them. My neighbor saw a large one yesterday near the white flowers of a blooming bush at the back drive, but my feeder remains empty. I wonder if the two that frequented my feeder all summer have begun their fall migration. I tried to note the last time I saw one. I wanted to write it down, but I didn’t. I expected to see it the next day, but I didn’t. It’s the same with the catbirds. Soon they will be gone, and I will see the first junco.

As my mother aged, I saved the birthday card she sent each year in case it was the last one. I still have that one from April 21, 2022. There is a children’s book that depicts a mother telling her children that if she new it would be the last time, she would have held them longer. When did I stop holding my children’s hands? When did they say, I’m old enough to go alone? And, now I think of that with my grandchildren. I asked the nine-year-old recently if he was too old to sit on my lap. He said yes, and we laughed. But, inside…

I will wait around a bit longer today for my hummingbirds. If they have left, I will think of their long journey. I will welcome others who are passing through from points further north. I will continue to change the nectar until there are no more sightings. I will watch the poplar bury the drive in its leaves. And, soon, I will welcome back the juncos.

Hints of Change

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Sep 2, 2024 category Gardens

There is change in the air. The subtle movement of change—more visceral than comprehensive. It starts with fallen needles under the evergreen. There is no better surface on which to walk than those needles under big, looming trees.

Before the red bud drops a leaf, its pods have browned. I hope the seed-containing pods will feed the Northern Cardinal who spends time in red bud’s branches.

As I walk outside, I observe the changing in the leaf colors. In one way, it seems like a death—the losing of those leaves and the skeleton of the tree remaining. But, I also sense hope and newness and wonder at what the earth will produce after it has rested.

The sedum are late-bloomers. They are beginning to produce salmon-colored flowers. The moon flowers are becoming more and more showy and fragrant near our front door. I have waited for it to have so many blooms that its fragrance would waft from my home and out to the street where dogs and their parents will stop and wonder.

Change is in the air. And, with it comes newness, possibility, but also uncertainty. I have become accustomed to green grass and large leaves and dinner-plate hibiscus. Soon, I will be wearing layers of clothes to keep warm. Kids are back in school and fall sports have started. I want baseball to last and last.

I love autumn, once I get used to it. Once I can walk out of the house and recognize what I see. I like to be surprised, but I need some assurance of the familiar to accompany it. Fall brings its own gifts, beauty special just to this season. Squash, pumpkin, corn stalks, soups, hot drinks. It beckons, subtly, and then it bursts. I’m here for it.

Behold, the Moonflower

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 8, 2024 category Gardens

At this time last year I was facing several life-changing events: my mother had died in January; I was diagnosed with leukemia in May; and I was preparing for a stem cell transplant in October. I spent three weeks and one day in the hospital preparing for and recovering from the transplant which will hopefully prevent the recurrence of cancer. I was isolated in a specially-sealed room. Visitors and staff were masked. I was vulnerable.

I spent a lot of time alone, though I had visitors. But when they left, I remained. My nurses became my caretakers, my confidantes, my friends. I longed for their visits, even if it was for blood draws, infusions, medications, or stats.

Nurse Alicia was one of those nurses. She was tall, strong, and wore crocs. She never seemed in a hurry. She had a son the same age as my grandson. She loved gardening and we spoke a lot about flowers. I had been unable to garden last summer because I was vulnerable to infection from microbes in the soil. I dreamt of what I could plant when I was well. She shared photos of two of her many plants—one being a salmon honeysuckle. The second, the moonflower. I wrote down their names and vowed that I would grow them when I was well.

Seven months later, on Mother’s Day weekend, Joe took me to the garden center to pick out the two plants I had thought about for so long. I still wasn’t able to plant them, but Joe did it for me. The honeysuckle was placed on my back deck in a blue pot where I can watch it wind itself around the railings and the legs of the cafe table.

The moonflower is in the garden near our front door.

What I found remarkable about the moonflower is that it flowers in late summer when the sun goes down. It needs sun most of the day and a trellis on which to climb. It took from May to August to fully engulf the 3-sided wrought-iron trellis. For many of those days, I doubted whether it would fill the space and thought we should have bought two plants instead of one. Seemingly overnight, though, it took off, even wrapping itself around the drain pipe.

Progress had been slow, but it was moving. Something had been happening when it appeared nothing had been. The leaves were large, but there were no flowers—until August 4.

It was evening. We had just returned from meeting my daughter and her family for dinner. It was the first time I had eaten indoors at a restaurant since last summer. It was delightful. And, I was tired. As I made my way up the three stairs to my front door, I saw it. A most magnificent white flower about the size of my palm, displaying itself among the much-larger green leaves. It lives, in all its majesty, for one day and dies. But, oh, while it lives, it is spectacular. Its fragrance is like that of gardenias.

There are more to come. The rain has kept the blooms at bay the last few days, but I will wait patiently for that next arrival. For the next sign that there is more to come. And, I will invite a friend or more to sit with me on my stoop or on lawn chairs and savor the moment.