Gardens

The Hummer’s Return

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 29, 2024 category Gardens

I had a powerful longing to see the hummingbird return to my feeder this year. This longing crept deep into my soul like a lifeline. Last year, during my illness, I did not keep up with preparing the nectar and thus saw no birds. I felt the loss. This year I’ve been consistent with replacing the nectar so it would be fresh when the hummers returned, but day after day, the feeder remained unattended. On occasion a dove or goldfinch would sit atop the pole that held the feeder. One young bird drank from the water I placed in the well of the red feeder. But still no hummingbirds.

My routine is the same most mornings: feed the dogs and cat; make coffee; pray the Rosary on my back porch; correct Ivy when she barks at the squirrels; and watch the birds. The more I watch, the more familiar I become with their movements, sounds, behaviors. I am so familiar that when an unusual motion is made, it catches my eye. On Saturday morning at 8:20, I finished my coffee and read while the neighborhood was still relatively quiet. I looked up as I often do to see the birds when I caught sight of it. I gasped and whispered, “The hummingbird. The hummingbird.” She hovered near my feeder, stopped to sip the nectar, and just as quickly as she came, she left. I clapped softly in appreciation of the moment.

I’ve seen her twice since then. It’s still not a regular thing, but my heart soars when I see her. I am still recovering from illness and just when the finish line of health is in sight, it seems to move, or I am blocked from seeing it. The birds give me hope. As I waited for this bird to return, I began to have doubts that I ever would see it again. But, I am reminded of all the other times it did return. It always did. Waiting can be physically painful. Loss and emptiness can hurt. But the moments far and few between bring enormous joy and hope.

Until she comes again, I will make myself ready by mixing one cup of boiling water with 1/4 cup of sugar, letting it cool, and pouring it into my freshly cleaned hummingbird feeder. As I wait, I will watch the goldfinch eat the Nyjer thistle and peck at the seeds from the dried cone flowers. I will watch the young cardinal eat from the tray feeder, allowing me close enough for a photo. I will savor the Mourning Dove as it gathers the seeds I dropped while filling the feeders, and smile at the House Finch sporting its orange head and chest. And, while I wait, I will savor the company of my ever-faithful friends: Ivy, Franklin, Stella, and Graycie.

Summer Weeds

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 22, 2024 category Gardens

Summer is a time of extremes: temperature, humidity, overgrowth, length of days. All long and overwhelming. All extreme. Sometimes a haze comes over me and I want to sit and rest while I watch things grow up all around me. Weeds take over the garden. Pathways are reduced by the growth of bushes, the fallen stems of plants and yellow wood sorrel that have overtaken the tidy mulch that had previously distinguished lines of demarcation.

I wonder at what provokes me to want to fix it. To make it orderly again. To show the definitive separation between plants. To trim down the deadened hosta flowers. To discard the potted plant that once sported colorful buds, now replaced by mostly brown. To grasp that creeping Charlie and pull it out by its roots. To control it all and make it manageable.

And, yet, another part of me says it is all too much. I can never keep up. It will only grow back and continue to haunt me. I’ll never be free of it.

This summer I sense another option. One that says I can live with weeds. I feel differently about what’s around me. Maybe because of what I’ve survived this past year, I can appreciate the mess and think of it as controlled chaos. There’s a beauty to it. There’s a freedom in it. The dogs don’t seem to care. The bunny still hops through the yard. The squirrel still lands on the tray feeder. The neighbors still say hello.

And, the birds continue to sing.

Close to Home

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 12, 2024 category Gardens, Stories, Uncategorized

I walked Ivy to Edgemoor Road this morning; really, we walked each other. Prior to the past year, she and I had walked that path each day for over three years, sometimes leaving so early on winter mornings, that the dark would cause us to rush off of Rodman Road to Brandywine Boulevard where we were safe on the sidewalk.

There was a rhythm to those early mornings, a familiarity of buses and sanitation trucks, cars gliding through four-way stop signs, kids waiting on street corners for the school buses. I knew the names of most people and dogs we passed: Bob and Skyler; Joan and Riley; Snoopy and his dad or mom (whose names I never learned) Deb and her daughter’s dog whom she took when she moved out.

When Franklin came to live with us, I would walk Ivy first and then repeat the walk with Franklin. People along the way would ask if this was my first lap or second. I noticed when people stopped walking. The man with the knee wrap; Deb, whose daughter took the dog; Valerie with the very short hair and huge smile who yelled, “Hello, Miss Denise!” when she saw me. I wondered about them. I wonder now.

Along the way I observed who cut down a tree, moved a rose bush, or planted new flowers. Once a man turned on his sprinkler right as Ivy and I were crossing in front of his house and he apologized profusely saying, “I’m mean, but not that mean.” He was not mean. He used to leave cuttings for me from his rose bush, apricot in color. Another woman, a kindergarten teacher at a local Catholic school, has a huge tulip tree on her front lawn. I stand under it in spring and wallow in its fragrance. She told me once that she grew up in that house and has photos of herself under that tree on Easter mornings.

Mr. Winston Black lives in the big ranch on the corner. He speaks with a thick accent and uses a walking stick to navigate the hills. He does not like the cold winters here and often travels to his home country until the weather breaks.

On today’s walk, the weather was warm with rain forecasted. We’ve had a heat wave lately and the thought of temps only reaching 80 degrees, though very humid, was welcome. I thought it would be a good time to try the walk. What used to take me 35 minutes, today took one hour. My steps were small and painful. Still recovering from my year-long illness and side effects from medications made me more like the tortoise than the hare, but I made that walk. Me and Ivy.

We passed all the usual places. Tom’s fig trees were huge, his apple tree dotted with red fruit, his olive tree silver and flowing, so much taller than last year. The man with the rose bush did not seem to be around. His grass was overgrown, the rose bush no longer produced flowers where he had moved it to the side yard. Deb’s house looked empty, though the lawn had been cut. When I waved to the bus drivers, they did not beep as they used to. Things seemed different today.

Maybe people were on vacation or walking at different times of day, but my walk was not as I remembered it. Things had changed over the past year and I wasn’t there to see the gradual movement. I may try again another time, or I may find a new path to walk.

When Ivy and I turned off of Brandywine Boulevard, onto Rodman Road, I saw the man who works on his garden while his Dalmatian runs off-leash. He asked how I was feeling and said it was good to see me out. I waved to the woman in the rental, the one who collects weeds with her mother and makes ink-prints and explained the whole process to me the other day. I am thankful for my neighbor’s full garden and smile thinking of her one-year-old daughter popping cherry tomatoes into her mouth. I appreciate the pots of flowers placed on my front stoop by another neighbor who thought I’d appreciate a pop of color.

It felt like progress to make that long walk, and I sensed a level of success for having achieved it. But, I realize things have changed while I’ve been gone. Sometimes change is good. Maybe. While I write, I watch the familiarity of the flurry of birds at my feeder: the yellow goldfinches, the gray catbirds, the orange house finches amid the pastel pink echinacea, the hot pink hibiscus, the long winding vines of the honeysuckle. Sometimes, the most beautiful things are very close to home. But you have to look for them. Like the inconspicuous flowers of the hedge that surrounds our patio. If you don’t look close enough, you won’t see it.

Early Weeks of Summer

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 4, 2024 category Gardens

The early weeks of summer have proven to be as expected—hot. The hibiscus have sprung from their green and maroon leaves. The bushes are cut back over the winter to mere inches from the ground. It’s a wonder they return to such grandeur by the next summer. It flowers throughout summer, continuing to open as older ones wither and die.

The baby birds are practicing their wing flaps, often staying in one position in the air and then slowly falling back to earth, wings flapping all the way. The babies are easy to spot with their pillowy-heads and odd behaviors. Some will let you approach as they haven’t learned to fear us yet.

Each morning, a pair of woodpeckers find their way to the safflower cylinder. One eats, effectively hammering the packed seed with its beak. The other, with clean markings of black and white, watches the other and attempts to imitate what it sees. After several tries, the more efficient bird approaches the younger and places a seed in its mouth.

I’ve put out a tray feeder to help with crowding around the other feeders, and the squirrel has decided to be a participant, as well. Our English Lab, Ivy, warns us of an intruder with her deep, ferocious bark. I try to explain that we don’t need her protection, but to no avail. The squirrel can share, too.

The birds I long to see most each summer are the hummingbirds. The feeder has fresh nectar and my eyes often fall to that red feeder as I await the arrival of these special birds. It seems they will never come until they do and then it seems that they’ve always been here. I moved the feeder so it’s nearer to the echinacea. Birds like variety, too.

Summer Storm

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 24, 2024 category Gardens, Uncategorized

The forecast for last night called for a severe thunderstorm warning. After numerous days of high humidity and upper-90-degree temperatures, I welcomed the possibility. I watched the sky darken as I sat on the screened porch with my three dogs and one cat. The winds picked up, bending the tall trees, showing the undersides of leaves, and sending the sounds of an oncoming train.

Finally, the skies opened and rain began to fall, delightfully. It rained sideways as the wind carried the rain in sheets across the drive and through the gardens. I wondered at the word “sheets” to describe how rain falls. Was it like bedsheets? Or sheets of paper? There was a white to it and a form that moved as though it had somewhere important to be.

Thunder roared, but I saw no lightning. The dogs were calm, but I saw no birds. I wondered where they had sheltered as the trees were moving with such ferocity, that they didn’t seem a safe place to wait out the storm. The temperature dropped from 91-degrees to 74-degrees and with it a lifting of the oppressive humidity. We could all breath easier.

The morning brought the smell of freshly-washed air, of a breeze sent to absorb the water that had fallen last night. The echinacea looked happy. The large potted flowers seemed a bit water-logged. As I prayed from the same place where I watched last night’s storm, I heard a cacophony of sounds. Birds seemed to be everywhere, singing, chirping, flying, criss-crossing. They reminded me of children being set free of the classroom to head out for recess. Most of the birds were in pairs or groups as they fluttered about. All but one, that is.

One sets itself apart on the railing of my deck and looks up into the sky. I know its name because I see the dark spot on its chest. It conjures up, from its very soul, the sound of heaven. It opens its beak as it releases the melody for all to hear. The song sparrow.

And, all is right with the world.

The Wonders of Mid-June

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 11, 2024 category Gardens

The tiger lilies line the back drive next to my neighbor’s fence. They stand tall and singular, yet together they make a crowd. I am reminded of a parade, people held back by an invisible line, and yet craning their necks for a view of what’s to come, even though it will pass by right in front of them soon enough.

It’s the end of the school year here in the northeast. On the last day, teachers line up in the parking lot and wave to the children as the yellow school buses haul them away for summer vacation. I can visualize both the sigh of relief as well as the tears in the eyes of the staff—and the kids.

The echinacea have blossomed. They’re one of those plants that show every stage of development at the same time. While some of the flowers are tiny, others begin to turn a light pink; older ones are bright, deep pink with petals that have pushed back to look like a shuttlecock or someone sticking their head out of a fast-moving car. They have spread a lot since last year, moving into the territory of the iris greens. I like that they all live together and I prefer the cottage-like freedom to the neat and tidy borders of the more elegant, structured gardens.

The lavender has found its roots, finally, and is growing full and lofty. I run my hand through it just to have the fragrance close by as I move through my day. I have cut it and dried it, but it never has the same smell as when it is still in the ground.

Bright lemon-yellow goldfinches are exuberant about the dry thistle in their freshly-cleaned feeders. Babies of various bird varieties abound and are easy to spot with their bed-head feathers and odd, trusting behaviors. I enjoy watching the downy woodpecker and female cardinal share the safflower cylinder, each eating away on their own side of the white tower, content to share as long as they don’t see each other.

I learned once about closing my eyes and identifying five sounds in nature. It is easy to get to three but then I question myself about the next two. Did I hear that one already? After five, the sounds multiply and I could easily count more. Birds, bugs, rustling leaves, my dog’s snore, my cat’s meow. It all counts.

Even my own sigh.

Windy Days

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 16, 2024 category Gardens

The wind blows steadily today. I recently told my grandson to take note of windy days following rainy ones. It is still cloudy and overcast, the air is temperate—in the 60s. It is simply beautiful. I watch as the trees yield to the pressure. They bend but keep standing. The leaves blow and I am reminded of those with hair long enough to blow in front of their eyes.

I can see the bottoms of the leaves as well as the tops, the contrasting light (almost white) and light green. The trees are tall and lanky, designed to grow up more than out. The leaves are serrated. The birds have found this tree, now in its third year and find it steady enough to land in, yet not sturdy enough to build a nest there.

While entire tops of trees are moved in the gale-force winds, only one part of my honeysuckle is moving. It’s a vine that has reached beyond the top of my deck railing and has not yet decided where it would like to land. Last week, I wove it through the railings thinking how lovely it would look to have the yellow flowers decorate the side of the deck. In a day, the plant told me this was not a good idea. The leaves had started to wilt and while the rest of the plant looked happy, this one vine did not. I quickly unraveled it and let it go free. When the sun is out, it follows the light from one side of the deck to the other; when the wind blows, it allows itself to be moved.

I realize that I am not the one to decide where it lands. I make sure it has water and sun. I speak kindly to it. I admire it. I call it by name. Where it chooses to wind itself more permanently is up to the honeysuckle itself. In the meantime I enjoy watching it decide.

Rainy Days

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 10, 2024 category Gardens

I’ve come to love rainy days. For one thing, the neighborhood is quieter. No leaf blowers, hedge trimmers, lawn edgers to interrupt the sound of singing birds and rustling leaves. There is a smell that I associate with rain. I can sense it coming. The first time I remember that feeling was when I was young growing up in Yonkers, NY. It was summer and I was walking along McLean Avenue (which separated Yonkers from the Bronx) near the city park across the street from my apartment building. It was late afternoon and the sky had become ominously dark, the signs in store windows more pronounced. The fragrance in the air had changed to something fresh, clean, electric. I could sense it at the bridge of my nose. If I could have seen it, it would have been a steely gray. It was right before a thunderstorm which would soon wash the streets and sidewalks clean of the grit and grime of the city’s buses, cars, and trucks.

Today is one of the rainy spring days that rather than coming down in torrents, comes in a steady strong mist, a shower that waters every plant, tree, flower. The birds seem not to be bothered by rain. In fact, they are quite active. I watched a raven be chased by both mockingbird and blue jay. Now that the feeders are clean and fresh nyjer thistle set out, the goldfinches are back in their yellow glory, happily eating. The cardinals prefer the safflower cylinder and will sometimes share the space with house sparrows that live in my neighbor’s hedge; other times they chase the sparrows around and around and around the circular base. Aptly named, the catbird has returned and I look forward to hearing the cry that sounds very much like a cat in great need. In a surprising moment, a red-bellied woodpecker found the cylinder this morning, and later, the more common visitor, the downy (or was it a hairy?) woodpecker.

I am anxious to see what new growth will be displayed tomorrow morning after the rain stops and the sun returns. I wonder if the hummingbirds will stop for a drink at my feeder while on their way north. I wonder if my honeysuckle vine will be tall enough for me to encourage its winding around my deck railings. Let the rain come. Let it feed our souls. Let it bring us thoughts of what tomorrow will bring while we enjoy the quiet hum of the falling drops today.

Plants Carry Stories

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 4, 2024 category Gardens

One recent morning I came to my screened porch to pray and looked outside to discover the first iris had opened in the garden. I gasped at the sight of it. A first fruit, standing tall and proud signaling to the world that it had arrived. Plants carry stories.

Not far beyond it, the primrose had started to wither, giving up its spot in the limelight to the neighboring, spreading lavender—a gift I had purchased for my dad shortly before he died. I brought it back home and planted it in his memory.

With the changing of the red bud from purple to green, the peonies make their appearance known in a big way. There is nothing shy about a peony, particularly that of the dinner plate variety.

I spend time contemplating how many of the flowers were given to me by my friend, Cathy. When I would visit, she’d grab a big shovel and dig up whatever I wanted. When she visited, it was often with a bag containing plants and soil. The wild geraniums are subtle and had been growing on her property for years and each spring I ask her to remind me of their name. The irises were given to her by her mother-in-law and now spread across states from Cathy’s home to mine.

The variegated hosta were from my Uncle Sal. He gave me several from his garden in Yorktown Heights, NY and I planted them around my house in northwestern NJ. We moved out of state and left the hosta to adorn the garden we had nurtured. Some time later we heard that the people who bought our home had moved away, leaving it abandoned like Joyce Kilmer’s The House With Nobody In It.

My daughter and I were visiting in the area and drove by our former home. We were sad to see the garden in shambles, the plants we had nourished hidden in weeds. We pulled over, and under a mound of dried leaves I spotted some hosta. Uncle Sal’s hosta. I don’t remember what we used for a shovel—maybe a plastic spoon, but I dug up several of those plants and brought them back to our new home a hundred miles south. They now share the ground here in Delaware and I think of my Uncle Sal when I see them.

Plants have stories to tell.

Tulip Poplar

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 26, 2024 category Gardens

A tree has an entire ecosystem in and around it. At the end of prayer today, I sat quietly waiting to see if God had anything to tell me. I watched the tulip poplar in my neighbor’s yard as I waited.

I noticed that some of the leaves were in sunlight and some in shade. Some of the branches were filled with leaves, others were barren, dead. The tree was home to birds and squirrels, and if not a home, then a resting place for weary travelers, or a place from which a vantage point could be gained.

There is potential danger with this tree because it leans directly toward another neighbor’s house, but if it were to be removed, there would be a hole left that couldn’t be filled for years. I continue to watch as every leaf moved, as squirrels climbed, as birds landed. And I noticed the sturdy, strong trunk, never moving, that supported it all.