The Prize Tree

What with all this talk of my mom, I thought I’d take you to meet my dad.  Got a few minutes?

 In between the butt-dial and the confrontation of the overheard butt-dial conversation between my mother and an unnamed party, a friend and I dropped in on Dad to get his opinion on mom’s ability to travel internationally.  If we thought a fish sandwich value meal was going to buy away his loyalty to his queen, we were sadly mistaken.

We pulled up in the drive, and found Dad working in his private utopia:  the backyard.  I may have mentioned that Dad is a homebody, an introvert, and that if left to his own devices, he would be satisfied to live out his days watching things take root, and grow.  This patient, nurturing nature may explain why he is so exceptional with children.

Dad smiled shyly, wiped his hands on the thighs of his well-worn blue jeans, and asked my friend if she’d like the tour.  Smiling, she said, “Of course!”

He rubbed his hands together, every bit as excited as the kid who has just been told he can begin to unwrap his birthday gifts.  “Well, first, come see my prize tree.”

I smiled, wondering if I’d just been so lost in my grief that I was out of the loop or did I really not know my own father as a person?   I’d never heard him mention a prize tree.

We travelled across the immaculately kept lawn, as he pointed out plants and flowers, naming them, their origins, and their temperaments.  Since I can’t keep anything green alive, I had no idea plants and flowers even had temperaments.  Fresh cut flowers are the only thing you will ever find in my immediate environment.  I used to joke around back in my classroom days when I was responsible for the welfare of 17 preschoolers, as well as my own two children at home, saying I could only keep children and pets alive. Obviously, I don’t say that anymore.

My dad is 79, but looks easily 10-15 years younger.  Somewhere along the way, he’d taken on that old adage of “a body in motion stays in motion” to heart.  Nearly eighty, he still cuts his own lawn, he sweeps out his driveway meticulously, and in the winter, more than an eighth of inch of frost is not allowed to accumulate on my father’s pavement.  Snow fears my father.  He takes maintenance of the home and yard to an efficiency I’ve seldom seen.

So to be in the backyard, where rare flowers (one coaxed four years before it bloomed), lobbying for space with bushes, well-manicured shrubbery, and haphazardly placed hummingbird feeders, I could see where I may get some of my creativity.  His outdoor space was his studio:   the greenery and flowers so many paint-splattered brushes and well-squeezed tubes of acrylic.  He went from one all absorbing passionate project to another.  Where someone else would be awestruck at his time and dedication, he simply knew it looked somehow exactly right to his eyes, and was shy, but excited to show it to the world, introvert-style:  one new person at a time.

When Angie complimented all of his hard work, he beamed.  “Sometimes, a car will slow down, like maybe someone is taking a peek back here, and I have to stop myself from just flagging them down, and saying ‘hey, come on back here, and take a look around….you know, if you want…”  Amused at this unlikely scenario, he chuckled out loud, looking young, looking boyish, and in that moment so much like my sister’s son, Blake, age 20, that my eyes filled with tears.  Did I love this shy, gentle man?  He was my world.

Somehow or another, Angie and I worked the conversation around to Dad’s opinion on whether or not Mom really wanted to go on the trip to Italy with me, or rather her anxiety was driving her to appoint herself my international babysitter.

My respect for him only grew as he refused to answer one way or another.  “I cannot speak for your mother.  I imagine she may feel a little of both ways, but it’s really not my place to say what she wants, only she can do that.”  That said, he perked up at the thought of my mom, and pointed out an empty patch, “I’m gonna put some climbing roses over there, where your mother can see them from the window.”

The smile still on his lips, he bent his head, and suddenly changed topic, “We all miss Cory.  I, myself, miss her something awful.”  He fetched a deep sigh, and shook his head as if to confirm the fact to himself.  “Little Cory is gone, and life is for the living.”

His quiet observation cut me to the quick.  It was not what I wanted to hear, but perhaps as my father it was not his job to give in to my wants, but to do as he always has, and give me what I need.  I remember a few years back, he laced some piece of advice with this telling question, “Have I ever lied to you, child?  Have I ever?”

No, he had not.  As I stood in his backyard showpiece, with the mosquitos and bees buzzing about their business, I could think of no reason for him to start then.  His gentle, wistful comment was one my heart would return to, puzzling over, and trying to find a way to acknowledge my father’s wisdom.  Someday.

The visit that afternoon ended with Dad fishing in his jeans for his trusty pocketknife to cut a blossom for each of us off his prize tree.  Later that night, I sketched the scene, and painted the blossom, never wanting to forget those moments with my dad. 

Clutching our blossoms, we got in the car, no further ahead than when we’d arrived about mom’s ability or desire to travel.  All the same, I knew when I got home, and spied my kitchen table, laden with art supplies, and projects all in varied stages of completeness, I would realize I was tending my own garden.  It’s just my thumb isn’t green; it’s multi-colored.