Buffalo Bill
With scissors in my back pocket and my watering can in my
hand, I head out to the garden as soon as the sun’s rays dance upon my picket
fence. It is early. Early enough so that the heat of the sun stays away long
enough to water my garden and check for any special plants peeking out or
others needing clipping. I am always surprised at what I find in the early
morning light. Walking the perimeter of my garden is such a joy even though I
am a bit behind this year. I had it all planned out, but an injury put me in
the backseat during the month of May, and we all know what I did in June. I
kept reading articles stating there was still time to plant. I followed that
advice and kept tossing seeds into the ground during the first of July. On the
whole, I planted 250 sunflower seeds. One grew. The neighborhood squirrels
enjoyed the rest of them for brunch. Why, I ask myself with a sigh. I guess my
garden will be blossoming when others begin the late summer withering process.
We shall see. I am hopeful. The garden keeps me grounded these days…literally
and figuratively as I try to limit my time on the news.
The news keeps my heart rate high. I cry over every lost
child or adult in the flooded areas. Their photos flash over the Internet and I
am drawn to look into their young eyes. This week the historic Inn at the Grand
Canyon burned to the ground. I was there once with my family. We usually spent
the summer at Lake Michigan, but one year my dad decided we should go West…as
in the advice by Horace Greely. We were all issued a trash bag (there were a
lot of kids), in which to pack with our clothes and treasures. It was easier to
pack trash bags in the back of a station wagon than suitcases. They fit much
better. We had another container full of small breakfast cereals. The kind
where we each got our own! The milk was stored in the cooler along with bologna
for lunches.
It was a six-week journey across America from Indiana to
California and back by way of station wagon. Two parents and five kids. My
youngest sister was not born yet. My travel place was in the middle of the
backseat so I could entertain all the younger siblings. No iPads or phones…just
our own voices for songs and stories…all the way there and back. No wonder I
grew up to love stories and music! And how many of us sang a hundred bottles of
beer on the wall?
We stayed at the Wild Buffalo Bill Hotel in Cody, Wyoming.
We actually stayed two nights which sent my mom refiguring our journey as she
had planned each day. During our stay the grandson of Buffalo Bill was there.
As I remember, he was quite a character. We loved staying there on our way to
Yellowstone National Park.
And then we went to the Grand Canyon and splurged to stay
at the Inn. We all crowded into two rooms. We did not walk down into the canyon
but spent much time wandering around the rim. It was spectacular. This week the
wildfires took the Inn and the history with it.
This week we also lost a marvelous writer and poet. Andrea
Gibson was the Poet Laureate of Colorado. She was chosen in 2023.
Qualifications include artistic ability along with a body of work. Usually,
these poets are also activists for causes. Andrea was definitely that. Her work
reminds me of Mary Oliver, of which I am also a great fan. I do believe in
poetry. I believe it helps us understand and appreciate our world. Her is just
a quick sample of Andrea’s work. She was just 49.
I know
you think this world is too dark to even dream in color,
But I’ve
seen flowers bloom at midnight.
I’ve
seen kites fly in gray skies
And
they were real close to looking like the sunrise,
And
sometimes it takes the most wounded wings the most broken things
To notice
how strong the breeze is, how precious the flight.
Andrea
Gibson
Her words help me understand and appreciate the beauty of
this life. I think about this as I put away the morning tools and take one last
look at the garden. Tomorrow is another day.
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