This week, overwhelmed by work, I’ve had no time to write a proper column. Instead, here’s one I’ve included in my book, The View from Sunnybank, available at Horizon Books in Traverse City. The stories in there will help you remember what it’s like to feel good about people, animals and –life.
Every dime I earn is recycled into my garden. That’s a promise!
It was a lovely summer afternoon. A specially equipped van drove up and unloaded seven Alzheimer’s patients- three in wheelchairs- for a scheduled garden tour. The group was largely silent. Occasionally, one or two would ask where they were, and require confirmation that they were ‘on track,’ and that their driver wouldn’t forget how to get home. One elderly man hoped aloud, over and over, that he’d turned the stove off before leaving. Their caregivers kept up reassuring, cheerful conversation as they settled everyone in the main garden.
One wheelchair patient was bent nearly double; the two others stared straight ahead, their hands restlessly picking at the blankets on their laps, not seeming to notice, or care, where they were. The rest made their way to the benches and arranged themselves carefully. A small lady seemed reluctant to let go of the bench arm, needing its solidity; she looked confused and tensely alert.
“Did I turn off the stove?” came that soft voice, again.
Mama Nature was feeling benevolent. Her soft breath ruffled the big grasses, and delicate flowers moved just enough to release their scents. Birds sang, and the air was redolent with the buzz of busy insects. The garden was a jumble of bright reds, intense pinks, rich gold and pale or deep blues that blended with oranges and purples. Sweet alyssum wound through the beds and perfumed the air, connecting everything. The fountains burbled, their soft murmur muting the rough blat of the outside world. The caregivers chatted quietly among themselves, and with their charges.
Gradually, as I watched, these visitors began to respond to Nature in her best mood. A blanketed, wheelchair-bound woman hummed fragments of an old song. The bench sitters made comments addressed to no one, about the sights and sounds around them. Others began to look around, tentatively.
But something special was happening to one slim, wheelchair-bound man. He sat up straight, looked around, smiled, and began talking conversationally, his bright eyes taking in everything. “Ummm…those rosemary leaves are delicious! I know all about that plant!” Then, pointing to a particularly beguiling daylily: “This wonderful peach color reminds me of Jean’s summer dress. I often pick the best blue irises for my mother; she buries her face in them, and thanks me, laughing, because I get them from the neighbor’s ditch.” More quietly: “I love the summer sniffs because it means no school for two long months…We’ll ride the donkey… have a garden, but it’s partly my sister’s, too. I can grow just about any veggie, but flowers capture me.” He grinned. “We take snapdragons on picnics, and make ‘em ‘talk…’”
The staff surrounded him, sharing their own experiences. Mr. Jones answered questions reasonably, and pointed out favorite plants. By now the others, their apprehensions largely forgotten, were daring to look up, or walk out a few steps, or nod. The bench-arm woman, still in her own world, nodded and smiled to herself as she slowly rose and began to wander around. Even the soft-voiced, stove-worried man sniffed appreciatively, and recalled the lovely kitchen bouquets his wife used to gather from their own garden.
Too soon, it was time to go.
A staff member came over to thank me, and shake my hand. “This is truly a special day! Mr. Jones, in that wheelchair, has never spoken. What a marvelous resurrection; we couldn’t believe our ears! He’s so articulate—so full of vivid memories!”
He shook his head. “It’s amazing! The other staff won’t believe this!”
Mr. Jones was still dusting off old, delightful floral memories as the van pulled away.
I wandered back into my perfumed garden, deeply content, recalling Shakespeare’s Hamlet, to Ophelia- “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance…”