SPRING IN THE WINTER OF OUR LIVES

[Tylergal]

My experiences with horse manure are wonderful pages in the lives of two wonderful people, who freely give of their stalls and fields, the manure to my roses.  They are older, and some days my gardener and I seem to be their only link with life after a bleak winter inside. He sits in a wheelchair while she comes out to open the gate, swooshes the horses back.  Forsythia is beginning to break dormancy, a sure sign spring is near.  The horses are frisky today.  The sun is shining brightly.  Once we are inside, she asks me to join her in walk over to the cottage for a cup of tea, whilst the gardener eyes the horses more cautiously and curiously than the manure. It is all laid out, brown, dried, no odor, just good dried stuff, ready for placing in the truck.  
 
This is recycling at its best.  My gardener, James, shovels while I listen to her stories of different lands, different horses she rode. Her husband sits under the shelter of the "big house" in which they now reside which was probably very grandiose in its day but time has worn the facial boards and the columns are now adorned with peeling paint that flutters in the wind like a butterfly on wing.  Upkeep may have been out of their physical or financial reach, and the cottage in which we have tea most likely occupied by caretakers through the years, is well appointed, though dank from the long wet winter.  Although dimly lit, I can see the care she has taken to artfully furnish this cozy place, which is probably her retreat.  The well-worn furniture speaks of a genteel past, filled with and complimented by equestrian paintings, landscapes, still life, and portraits of the genteel lady who draws the tea.  She explains with a smile:  they were all done by the man whose blanket warms while it hides the stumps, which once were the legs of an avid golfer, rider and tennis player.  Today they each live in a different world because I have come here to listen to her stories of their travel.  He is entertained by the housekeeper and warmed by the sun under the porch of the once-stately mansion, while she and I share tea by the fire she has built, as she recalls how they met, their travels, their childless lives together, loving their horses, their pursuits, their travels dearly, such that there was no room nor time for anyone else, just each other, their social circle, their luggage, passports and the horses.  It is a sweet story but leaves me wishing there were children, children to care, to caress, to listen and tend.  Children deserve to be parented by these two. She is saddened by her empty womb, it is obvious, but she tries to hide that, as she glances toward her husband whose skin is pale and his hand shakes a bit.  She goes on as if trying to convince him (although he not even within ear shot), me, if not herself,  that their lives are complete, on track, where they want to be - just them and their horses. For a short time today, they were back in Europe riding horses, cruising to distant islands, attending dinner parties, playing golf, painting and shopping.  
 
I offer them nine five 50-pound bags of alfalfa for the truckload of manure, a bargain for the horses and me.  Time is at hand, the truck is loaded, but it is obvious she wants me to linger on although I am paying the gardener $15 an hour while she chats.  I must go, although I would like to stay for her, for him and for me.  I have learned a great deal, have come to appreciate the pages of her book as she turns them through her words.  As we stroll back toward the truck past the Carolina jasmine, I offer treats to the horses who know I have brought sugar cubes, as she explains the necessity in having goats with her horses and the role they play in the horses' healthcare. The day is worth more than the price of two bags of alfalfa and the $30.00 for the labor. It is priceless. I relived with her the days when she donned her regalia to cheering crowds in England, traveled to Spain, cruised the Mediterranean, the difficulties transporting the horses, her husbands' love of golf and the courses he had played, the down time painting by the sea.  It is a recollection of lovely memories that she shared with me over a cup of tea, a cozy fire at a farm table.  I waved goodbye to her husband, while the gardener pushes her grateful, smiling husband and his wheelchair into the house for her, and I moved the truck outside the gate, waiting for him to return.  James opened the door, fastened his seat belt after checking to assure himself that he had secured her gate and the shovel he had laid atop the manure.  She turned and smiled, waved back at me as Oscar the truck chugged along pushing toward my garden which will appreciate the manure as much as I have the stories I heard, the lives who trusted me to become a part of them, which will linger long after rose season is gone.  James looked at me as if to say, "they are lonely and we should stay," but instead he says, "I think the lady, she wanted you to stay and visit.  She a nice lady.  You need to come back and stay a while, bring her some flowers."

[sharon]

Beautiful, Tylergal.

James is right -- you should. And some nice shortbread cookies to go with the tea. I wish I was close enough to join you.

[mishy]

Tylergal, I love your stories. They are so rich and warm and full of delicious imagery. Thanks for sharing them. I look forward to each one and will share them with others...

You posted a beautiful picture of one of your roses for Peaches the other day and I snatched it for my wallpaper at work. I've SO been enjoying it and it makes me think of you each time I look at it!!

[Tylergal]

Thank you both. For three seasons, I did see them frequently.  I took them flowers.  He has since passed on.  She has gone to live with friends in Virginia.  I miss them very much.  They became a part of my life and I was saddened by their departure.  They were wonderful people.

Thank you, Mishy, for the rose compliment.  Gosh, I do love them and love to photograph and share them.

[terryd270]

Tylergal,  I love your stories and I take them on my bike rides.. Today is so hot and I didn't expect any insights on this ride, I just wanted to get a little exercise and some fresh air. I found out that insight and beauty can be found anywhere, you just have to open your eyes and your heart to the possibility. But as I rode on, and particularly when I reached the woods and began to smell the scents that are so singularly "earthy," I began to rethink my topic. Individual items began to catch my eye--a perfectly shaped leaf on the path, holding a teaspoon of water in a curled cup; the whispering pines going by as I ride in the wind..The woods held a hundred different colors. The blues of the water, the deep greens of the evergreen trees, a pile of broken rock in whites and grays. And beside the path, in a cluster of dandelion puffballs gone to seed, a new one, bright yellow, just opened. As I rode, I also listened. The wind whispered through the tree's with a sound like music to my ears and as my tires made sounds on the gravel like crumpling paper. A small animal, probably a rabbit, bounded through the bushes behind me, and birds sang in the treetops, celebrating the warm day.  I learned that there is as much beauty and sound without using my ipod..  It's a different kind of sound--the beauty of the sparrow or the dove contrasted with that of the bluejay or cardinal. A quiet, stark beauty, elegant and alive.  

ps
I used to go rollerblading with some friends and I used to loved the smell of the earthy leaves and berries that was decompossing and they hated the smell..

[Tylergal]

Terry, that is so amazing.  I love the same things.  I love the walks in fields where I once lived that were so mundane and boring at the time and yet I see so much beauty in them now.  Many have been replaced by pine trees for cutting pulp wood and some of the farmers are now subdividing the land, but our land is farmed about 25% and the rest of it has been turned into a lake and we have planted trees, made a little park area and many magnolias were planted and some volunteered.  It is wonderful to just sit at that old concrete picnic table which I found at a garage sale, to smell the magnolias and in spring, there are many dogwoods where birds have dropped seeds through the years and now they are trees.  Funny when I try to move those dogwoods, they die, but if the birds drop the seeds they survive.  I remember being "forced" to go look for Christmas trees on our land when I was growing up and I wanted to buy them like "everybody else."  Now I find a lot of pleasure in knowing there are nieces and nephews who find trees on that land and the family actually enjoys it and they look forward to the times they go to find a tree.