Mr. Doodle's Dog: Forget-Me-Nots All Around

By Gimlet Rose

The yarrow and the carnations whisper to the lavender and rosemary across the path. They're quietly unruly.
They're been on their own for a while now. No one comes by to tell them to behave.
Their caretaker is gone.

Her name was Johanna Kane, and she was my grandmother. Those carnations and lavender and rosemary were in her garden. I flew from Florida to the Northwest to visit her one year; I was in my Sherpa bag, tucked under a seat, for such a long time.
I wanted to see my grandmother and see her fabled flowers and the rich, soft, grass in her garden. I am a lifelong Florida dog, and our grass is crabby.
It was my idea to take that long trip in that noisy plane. I had to meet my grandmother and investigate and hunt in that yard.
What a vacation I had. A glorious place for a little dog, my grandmother's garden. There are many beautiful gardens in the Northwest, but my grandmother's was special. She was an artist with flowers. She was always in her garden, even when it rained.
It rains a bit in the Northwest. Not as much as some say, but it does rain for all those flowers and fir trees.
My trip to visit my grandmother was a while ago. I still remember her laugh. It was the sound of silvery bells tinkling. That's how I would describe it. She laughed when I ran out into her garden and barked at the noise her neighbor was making. She told me I had the bark of two big dogs.

There will be no more visits with my grandmother.
She left her garden on its own, one late Sunday morning in April. The senior shuttle came and picked her up so she could do some shopping. She had never driven a car.
Along the way, a speeding and powerful Ferrari 512m was jumping lanes. The driver's name was Logan Coffey. His car crashed into my grandmother's shuttle bus.
My grandmother didn't go to the store that day. An ambulance came and took her to the hospital. After some time there, she and her broken bones took another ambulance trip to a nursing home. Her bones needed to mend, and she had to learn how to walk again.
My grandmother was in agony.
There was the pain and misery of her broken bones, but there was also the suffering of being away from her plants and her normal life. She missed her flowers and her trees. She missed the giant rosemary outside the kitchen door, and she missed the cotton lavender near the gate. There were no Stellars Jays to watch in the nursing home. She could barely see out her window.
She never returned to her garden.
She died in the nursing home.

There will be other gardens for me, other flowers to smell, more soft grass, somewhere, for me to run through.
But I will not find another grandmother with silvery laughter to enjoy my barks. A person who enjoys a good bark is hard to find. So is a true gardener. My grandmother was both of those things.
She is gone, killed, by a man with a fast car who couldn't stay in his lane. He took my grandmother away from her garden, and from me.

Johanna Kane, my grandmother.

There's my grandmother. You can see her chair beside her on the back steps. She would often sit there and rest after some garden work, or just admire her flowers. Sometimes she would talk with a neighbor's cat who might pop in for a visit. Or she would watch the jays and the cardinals. She was a fan of cardinals.
To think she lived all that time, and lived all over the country, and planted so many, many, flowers .... and a man in a speeding car kills her.

I wonder how the flowers in her garden are getting by without her. Are they lonely? Or thirsty? Does anyone stop and admire them the way my grandmother used to?
This is the part of her garden I most enjoyed:

This is the gate from the front garden to the wilderness area. The soil there must be magical, because whatever is put in the ground there grows and grows. My doggie dad fixed that front gate last year. There are forget-me-nots, ivy and hostas in front of that gate. My grandmother's good works get you coming and going.

This is the path that meets you, once you go through the gate. There are cobblestones and silly lambs ears and every shade of green you can imagine. There's the eucalyptus, with the pear tree close behind. A gifted gardener knows how to include color, scent, shape, water and sound throughout the year. Everything is tumbledown in that wildnerness area. How I enjoyed walking on the mossy cobblestones...or just walking up to a flower and having a good sniff.

I have revealed my grandmother's secret garden.
She was a private person, so I hope she doesn't mind. There are so many questions I have for my grandmother, so many things I would ask her.
What are the names of all those plants? What do they need? Do they need to be covered for the Fall and Winter? How often should they be fed?
Of course, I don't need to ask who taught her how to garden. She learned that from her own mother. There is a reverence for nature that runs like a wild terrier in our family.
Not that I am a wild terrier.
I am an observant terrier, and a terrier of art and words. There are times when I have a terrible understanding of human nature, when I connect all the dots and am left with a portrait of human folly.
Here are these glorious flowers and plants in my grandmother's private world, and then there is the image of Logan Coffey driving his Ferrari. He is speeding in the wrong lane on an early Sunday afternoon. My grandmother's private world and garden are not on his route, but he destroys them all the same.
Yes, my grandmother's garden remains, but she does not. What does the garden think of this? What does it whisper?
It does mourn.
We all do.
Although she lived to garden, it was just one facet of my grandmother. She was a rich and vital person, with that silvery laugh and wicked sense of humor. She was sharp.

This is a view from the front step of her house. It's almost as though she had created a frame for her front garden, isn't it?
The magenta blooms on the left are from her giant rhododendron; there's a smaller rhody on the right, too. Everywhere you can see the forget-me-nots as they run rampant. There are hostas and daylilies, and ... flowers everywhere, thanks to my grandmother's hard work.

If I could walk beside my grandmother again, I would tell her how much I loved her flowers, and how much I loved her.
She was sharp.
I think she knew.

Comments

Gimlet Rose, that's a beautiful tribute to a noble lady. I think her best attributes helped make you the lovely little dog you are.

Posted by: DD | August 03, 2008 at 06:01 PM

Beautiful words to match the beautiful photos. I'd like to think your grandmother is very proud indeed.

Posted by: Jef | August 03, 2008 at 09:09 PM

A lovely tribute. Sincere condolences for your loss. J x

Posted by: Jackson | August 05, 2008 at 04:24 AM

Thank you for sharing your goodbyes. I was fortunate enough to also visit her garden once, and I will always remember how beautiful it was. I think she'd be proud to share it one last time.

Posted by: Karen | August 06, 2008 at 12:34 AM

What a beautifull garden, and what a beautifull woman ...and such a lovely tribute to her..We were deeply moved by it..A+A

Posted by: Agatha and Archie | August 07, 2008 at 10:16 PM

We are brought to joy and sorrow. And now we too know your Grandmother.

Her gardens are beautiful, as is your paean. I am sure she is very pleased you so favored her spots in your remembrance.

We miss her now too because we know her now. You shared her with us.

And I am so sorry to be so long in noting this new posting.

Posted by: Tribby without reserve | August 07, 2008 at 10:25 PM

I only could imagine taking a short walk threw that garden with her.I think for a moment, "I just did".Thanks for sharing those photos.

Posted by: JanetPohodaMiller | August 08, 2008 at 05:51 PM

So many years has past since I spoke to Grandmother. I was deeply touched by your story and the photos. Johanna Pohoda

Posted by: Johanna Pohoda | August 08, 2008 at 07:27 PM

I believe your very private "grand mother" is very proud of your dog parents, not only for their God given gifts but also for their love of art, nature, animals and you. I cannot think of a more glorious tribute to her.
Priscilla Bahmiller

PS. I will send the tribute to those in her garden club to contemplate.
PSS. There are no cardinals in Washington.

Posted by: Priscilla Bahmiller | August 09, 2008 at 08:19 PM

Posted by: Priscilla Bahmiller | August 09, 2008 at 08:20 PM