Mister Owita's Guide to Gardening: How I Learned the Unexpected Joy of a Green Thumb and an Open Heart (20 page)

A POEM FOR MY FRIEND GILES:

There’s a way of passing through that’s difficult

And one that’s easy.

A breath that you take and you hold,

And after that, a burning brightly.

The love that you hold for your fellow man

Can never be extinguished.

Lie down by the stream

And may Paradise be.

I
t was a bright November morning. The sky was periwinkle streaked with dazzlingly white clouds. Sarah hurried down the sidewalk toward me, carrying a narrow box.

I met her in my driveway, wearing my best black dress, smoothing my hair into shape and twisting my key in the back of the van to let the hatch up.

“Let me have a peek,” I whispered.

Sarah’s eyes were tearful, but she smiled. “At first, I could find nothing. And then, as I walked along Giles’s yard, just like we hoped, I felt that he was directing me. Telling me, ‘Keep looking! Don’t give up! It’s over here, and all you have to do is find it!’”

She pulled the lid up, and I gasped. There in the box was the spray for Giles’s casket, taken from all the things he loved, the place he loved, the work he was put on earth to do. Sarah’s tears began to flow.

“I just didn’t think I could do it,” she managed to say.

I fingered the glossy magnolia leaves from the tree by the garden shed, the narrow strips of green foliage from the yellow-bearded irises Giles loved, sprigs of holly from his backyard workshop, purple beautyberry taken from beneath the picture window, branches of juniper from beside the little summer garden, and sprigs of fragrant rosemary from that certain spot where the handicapped ramp started upward from the sidewalk toward the front door. That’s where a visitor would always hear Giles calling, “Eh!
Amosi!
Please come in!”

I took the box from Sarah and placed it carefully in the van. We embraced as neighbors passing by in cars looked on in sympathy, and now I was weeping, too. Several of these neighbors
would attend the Mass, along with so many others who had come to know Giles and were grateful for the blessing of his fruitful life.

Dick dropped me off at the back entrance to the church and went around to park. I heard the choir rehearsing the Crimond (The Lord’s My Shepherd) for after Communion, and I knew the joyful strains of “All Things Bright and Beautiful”
would soon be rehearsed, as well.

I carried the arrangement into the chapel, where Bienta and the children waited. They watched me as I held Sarah’s arrangement, Giles’s masterpiece, over the polished wood of the closed casket. I carefully lowered it into place.

My gaze focused briefly on the brilliant orange rose hips taken from bushes that only weeks before swayed majestically in the breeze, heavy with roses awaiting a traveler’s arrival. This gave way to a view of the lovely traveler herself. Lok stood on the other side of the narrow coffin. Her braided hair was pulled elegantly up. She looked regal, dignified. Just like her parents. I didn’t know Lok at all, not really, but she looked back at me with lively eyes that were so familiar. Tears streamed down her face, and I wanted to go to her. Then Bienta and the boys moved closer in, and I held back. As they formed a circle, Bienta’s gracious arms reached out to include me.

I counted forward in time. How many weeks would pass before summer came again? And when did the roses bloom last year? I would find the answers in the notes I’d made in my
marble notebook, hopefully. Or maybe I’d simply remember the lessons conveyed by a man who taught me, at last, to love flowers. I placed my hand on the polished wood that held the body of my friend. Its surface felt so very smooth, and there was comfort, just in that. I took my loving leave of Giles and climbed the stairs to join the choir.

I
sat by the window in my study, looking out. Summer had arrived in my yard again, but without Giles, it didn’t feel the same.

The shrub that Naam planted that final day by the creek had at last sported its blossoms of bright red and yellow. As I noticed this, the hummingbird I’d been seeing for several days dipped through the yard yet again, hovering above Giles’s bush and drawing nectar from the blooms.

At noon, I joined Bienta for lunch. We’d become regulars, and the hostess showed us to our favorite table. I told Bienta how the shrub had been attracting a lovely hummingbird that visited often.

She held her spoon of tomato soup aloft. “A hummingbird is visiting your yard?”

“That’s right. Down on the bank. I showed you the shrub we planted. Remember?”

She sank back in her chair. I asked what was wrong.

“Did you not know about the hummingbird?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

In a mesmerized tone of voice, she told me about a hummingbird who visited Giles each day at the picture window last summer, as he was sitting in his wheelchair. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and would simply hover in midair, looking at him through the glass. “The boys liked to tease their father, calling the creature his pet,” she said.

“No,” I said. “A hummingbird? He never mentioned it.” My heart was beating rapidly.

“We have looked in vain for that hummingbird this season,” she said. “It is nowhere to be found. It has not visited our yard at all this year.”

I gave a tiny gasp. We stared at each other, only somewhat disbelieving—after all, we were dealing with Giles—until the waitress returned to see if everything was all right.

“We’re fine,” I said.

“More or less,” Bienta added. She offered me a wistful smile. “We have learned a lot, haven’t we, Mrs. Wall?”

“We have.”

Driving home, I remembered reading something about hummingbirds. It was lovely, yet unsettling, and I couldn’t recall the
specifics. As Rhudy enthusiastically greeted me at the door, it suddenly struck me. I rushed upstairs to my dresser and pulled out the stack of get-well cards from my surgery and chemotherapy. I had bundled them with a rubber band and buried them beneath my carefully folded T-shirts. Removing the rubber band, I thumbed through the stack until I found it. It was a card with a hummingbird logo on the back. Below the logo was the notation: “Legend has it that the hummingbird is able to float free of Time.”

I pressed the stack of greeting cards to my chest and closed my eyes. What other surprises waited for me around the river’s bend? I went to my study, where my marble notebook occupied a special corner of the desk. Something told me that I wasn’t finished writing in it yet. I looked out at the creek. I saw my face reflected in the windowpane.

Giles, tell me—what about the next scan and the next? What will my counts be? What will my future bring? I simply have to know.

No definite answer was forthcoming. The hummingbird was not in evidence either, but Giles’s cane stood in a shadowy corner by my desk. I considered what might have been Giles’s greatest lesson to me—his example of the gracious acceptance of the handicaps and afflictions life had brought him. He had shown me that the earth is full of hidden treasures.

I heard Giles’s voice as he softly whispered, “In every moment there exists a lifetime. Every day brings something good!”

This memoir is based on a true story. Names of individuals—and certain other identifying information—have been changed to ensure privacy. In a few instances, the time line has been compressed or otherwise altered slightly to serve the purposes of the narrative. Conversations reflect my best recollections. All pertinent medical information concerning the principals (HIV, stroke, and breast cancer histories) is precisely accurate, and a matter of record.

It takes a lot of people to make something like this possible. When I think of everyone I need to thank, I’m not sure where to start.

Maybe I should thank all the agents who turned me down over the years. They made it possible for me to find Marly Rusoff, uber-agent, and the best friend and mentor any writer could have. I had the story, but Marly made this book possible. She has a great feel for storytelling and a great feel for people. She has talked me off the ledge more than once over the last three years. She is the best.

Maybe the best thing Marly did was to get me and
Mister Owita
to Amy Einhorn at Penguin. I remember my first conversation with Amy. She had only read the proposal at that time, but told me she could “see” the book. I have no doubt that was the case. She has a gift for knowing what I am thinking and telling me how I should express it. To say she is a meticulous editor is an understatement. I know much has been written about her attention to detail. Every time she touched the manuscript, she made it better. She and her assistant, Liz Stein, have had the vision and determination to make this happen. Lots of other people at Penguin have
had a hand in this, of course, including Katie McKee in Publicity and Diana Van Vleck and all of the talented sales people.

I also want to thank my friend and literary consultant, Peternelle Van Arsdale, of PVA Books, who used her special gifts and keen ear to help me find the best way to tell this beautiful story. Peternelle and I have had a special connection, and I am fortunate to have her assistance.

Lots of my friends and many in our large extended family have helped me produce this work. My husband, Dick, has encouraged me in what I used to call “my pretend writing career” for many years. He insisted that I spend the time that it takes to do this and made it possible for me to devote myself to the lonely business of writing. My children, Chad, Jennie, and Phil, also have provided support and approval. Phil had an important part in the development of the book. In 2009, shortly after Giles died, I was struggling with a manuscript about my breast cancer. “Struggling” is really putting it mildly. I was afraid of exposing my feelings and I was just not in love with the story. Just when I was about to give up, Phil suggested that I bring my friend Giles into the picture. Good idea, Phil.

Chad’s wife, Ashley, and Jennie’s husband, Kenny, have been supporters from the beginning. I have been inspired by a large and loving family, including my precious grandchildren, Madeline, Caroline, Rachel, and David. How can I not feel lucky?

Dick is a business lawyer, and one of his best professional qualities is knowing that he does not know everything. He also realized that being married is hard enough without adding a lawyer-client relationship to the mix. Dick introduced me to entertainment lawyer Kirk Schroder, who has provided help and advice over the last few years.

This story, of course, is about my friend Giles. I know that not many people are blessed to have such a friend, and I thank God for sending Giles into my life. I also thank my friend Ellen, master gardener, for introducing me to Giles, for being a sounding board throughout the whole process, and for providing lots of background information. My good friend Anne has encouraged me every step of the way. My PEO sisters
have been a great source of strength, as has my friend Gerda. Monsignor Tom Miller has provided lots of inspiration and prayer on my journeys. Special thanks also go out to Kelly Wheelbarger and my friends in the choir.

Giles’s wife, Bienta, has become a special friend, and she is an important part of the story. She has supported every part of the project and I look forward to working with her in spreading the message of
Mister Owita’s Guide to Gardening
.

My struggles with cancer and my medical record are well documented in this book. For some reason, I have always avoided the term “breast cancer survivor.” I have now learned to embrace being a “breast cancer patient.” The many of my sisters who have this disease and share this label understand that, even though there is no cure yet, we now have the possibility of living with the disease for many years. My Handsome Oncologist, Dr. Bill Fintel, has helped me understand this. At the end of the book, I say,
“Giles, tell me—what about the next scan and the next? What will my counts be? What will my future bring? I simply have to know.”
As Giles taught me, I don’t really have to know. No one knows. But, Dr. Fintel and I have a plan. He is fifty-seven and plans to work until he is seventy. I plan to be at the retirement party.

My wonderful internist, Dr. Lawrence Monahan, is also part of this plan. I have been blessed to have his support, as well as the expert assistance of many talented doctors and nurses, especially the nurses on 6W at Lewis Gale Medical Center. I am sure I will be calling on all of them again as years go by.

All of my students over the years—in diverse places such as Nashville, Charlottesville, Radford, and Roanoke—have taught me to be gracious in my acceptance of constructive criticism, and they have provided feedback on my writing that was genuinely offered and gratefully received. Special thanks go to Kristi Fry, teacher of English and writing at Northside High School in Roanoke, for arranging for me to serve as writer-in-residence for Roanoke County Schools. I think it is fair to say that I learned as much or more than the students learned.

I am blessed (and lucky) to have had the love and support of all of these wonderful people. In 1961, when I was in the fourth grade at McHarg School, I had a special, sainted teacher, Marge Roberson. She knew I wanted to be a writer and she used her power, beauty, and grace to encourage me. Over the years, I would always hear from her when I had an article published. I saw her occasionally, and she would always ask about my work. She passed away in January 2011, just before I signed my contract with Penguin. I saw her for the last time at my father’s funeral in 2007. She greeted me with these words: “How’s my favorite writer?”

Giles Owita taught me the answer to this question. For Marge Roberson’s favorite writer, every day is good.

Carol Wall

August 2013