Quote from Forum Archives on November 25, 2002, 1:28 pm

Posted by: bigguyhereagain <bigguyhereagain@...>

*** God's Mountain Garden ***

 

I grew up on a farm in the mountains of northwest Arkansas. As  children, my brother and I roamed every inch of the little mountain  facing my parents' house. We knew where every giant boulder and animal burrow was on that little piece of mountain bordering my dad's farm.
One day, my grandpa came to visit from his home several miles away.  We sat on the front porch swing looking at the mountain and he began  to tell me a story. It was a delightful tale about him and me living  in a little cabin on the mountain.
"Can you see it?" he asked. "It's right there by that big acorn tree.  See it?"
Of course I saw it. What eight-year-old child wouldn't see what  her imagination wanted her to see?
"We're gonna live in that cabin. We'll catch a wild cow for our milk and pick wild strawberries for our supper," Grandpa continued. "I bet the squirrels will bring us nuts to eat. We'll search the bushes for wild chickens and turkeys. The chickens will give us eggs and we'll cook us a turkey over the big ol' fireplace. Yep, we'll do that some day."
From that day on, every time I saw my grandpa, I asked when we would go to live in that little log cabin on the mountain. Then he'd once more spin the story of how the two of us would live in the cabin with the wildflowers and wild animals around us.
Time raced on; I grew into my teens and gradually forgot Grandpa's story.
After graduating high school, I still saw Grandpa and loved him dearly, but not like that little girl did. I grew out of the fantasy of the log cabin and wild cows.
Before long, I married and set up my own house. One day, the phone rang. When I heard my daddy's sorrowful voice, I knew my grandpa had left us. He had been in his garden behind his house and died there, his heart forever stopped.
I grieved alongside my mother for my dear grandpa, remembering his promises of the cabin in the woods with all its animals and flowers. It seemed I could once again hear his voice telling me the fantasy we shared. I felt my childhood memories being buried with him.
Less than a year later, I went to visit my parents' farm. Mama and I sat on the front porch admiring the green foliage of the mountain. It had been ten months since Grandpa had passed away, but the longing to hear his voice one more time was still fresh in my soul.
I told Mama about the story Grandpa had always told me, of the cabin  in the woods, the wild cow, the chickens and turkey. "Mama," I said after I had finished my story, "would you mind if I went for a walk by myself?"
"Of course not," was her reply.
I changed into old jeans and put on my walking shoes. Mama cautioned me to be careful and went on with her chores.
The walk was invigorating. Spring had come to the country and everything was getting green. Little Johnny-jump-ups were springing up all over the pastures. New calves were following their mamas begging for milk. At the foot of the mountain, I stopped. Where did Grandpa say that acorn tree was?
"Straight up from the house," I thought I heard him say.
I began my journey up the little mountain. It was steeper than I remembered, and I was out of shape. I trudged on, determined to find that tree.
Suddenly the ground leveled out. I was amazed to see what was before me. Soft green moss covered a small, flat clearing. Dogwood trees, smothered in pastel blooms, surrounded it. Off to the side stood a tall oak tree -Grandpa's acorn tree! Scattered among the tufts of moss were vibrant colors of wild wood violets. Green rock ferns and pearly snowdrops were scattered about as well. I could hardly catch my breath.
I don't know how long I stood there - several minutes, I suppose.
Finally I came to my senses and sat down on the moss. In all my childhood wanderings on the mountain, I had never seen this magically beautiful place. Was this what Grandpa meant when he pointed out our special spot on the  mountainside all those years ago? Did he know this was here?
A squirrel darted in front of me. He had a nut in his mouth. I watched as he scampered up the oak tree. No, I didn't see a wild cow or chickens.  But in my heart, I knew they were there somewhere.
I decided to go tell Mama what I had found. She would want to see it too. Before I left I took one more look. It was the most beautiful place I could have ever imagined.
It didn't take me as long to get back to the house. I burst into the kitchen babbling about the clearing on the side of the mountain. Mama calmed  me down enough so she could understand what I was talking about. Daddy heard the conversation and tried to convince me there was no such place up there. He knew the mountain and had never seen anything like that.
On my insistence, he and Mama decided to go see the amazing place I was raving about.
Once again I climbed the mountain straight up from the house.
Before I knew it, we were at the top.
"We must have missed it," I told my dad.
He just nodded and we retraced our steps. We searched for over an hour for that little place on the mountain. We never found it. I was devastated.
On the way back home, Mama put her arms around my shoulders. "Sissy," she said, "you know what you saw, don't you?"
"Yeah, I know what I saw, and I know it's there somewhere. We just  missed it."
"No sweetie, it's not there anymore. You saw God's garden. Only special people can see that. Your grandpa loved you so much, and he knew you were grieving inside. Hold that memory in your heart."
I'm 52 years old now. Every time I go back to Mama's house and sit on the porch, I remember the secret garden Grandpa told me about. But I no longer go out and look for it.
No, I know just where it is.

 

**********************************************************************

 

Carl's Garden

 

Carl was a quiet man. He didn't talk much. He would always greet you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in our neighborhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they knew him very well. Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The lone sight of him walking down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound received in WWII. Watching him, we worried that although he had survived WWII, he may not make it through our changing uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing random violence, gangs, and drug activity. When he saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers for caring for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he responded in his characteristically unassuming manner. Without fanfare, he just signed up.

 

He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared finally happened. He was just finishing his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, "Would you like a drink from the hose?"

 

The tallest and toughest-looking of the three said, "Yeah, sure," with a malevolent little smile. As Carl offered the hose to him, the other two grabbed Carl's arm, throwing him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, Carl's assailants stole his retirement watch and his wallet, and then fled. Carl tried to get himself up, but he had been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister came running to help him. Although the minister had witnessed the attack from his window, he couldn't get there fast enough to stop it.

 

"Carl, are you okay? Are you hurt?" the minister kept asking as he helped Carl to his feet. Carl just passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head.

 

"Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise-up someday." His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He adjusted the nozzle again and started to water.

 

Confused and a little concerned, the minister asked, "Carl, what are you doing?"

 

"I've got to finish my watering. It's been very dry lately," came the calm reply. Satisfying himself that Carl really was all right, the minister could only marvel. Carl was a man from a different time and place.

 

A few weeks later the three returned. Just as before their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time they didn't rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him head to foot in the icy water. When they had finished their humiliation of him, they sauntered off down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, falling over one another laughing at the hilarity of what they had just done. Carl just watched them. Then he turned toward the warmth-giving sun, picked up his hose, and went on with his watering.

 

The summer was quickly fading into fall. Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he struggled to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his summer tormentors reaching down for him. He braced himself for the expected attack.

 

"Don't worry old man, I'm not gonna hurt you this time." The young man spoke softly, still offering the tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. As he helped Carl get up, the man pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket and handed it to Carl.

 

"What's this?" Carl asked. "It's your stuff," the man explained. "It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet."

 

"I don't understand," Carl said. "Why would you help me now?"

 

The man shifted his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at ease. "I learned something from you", he said. "I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us for hating you. You kept showing love against our hate." He stopped for a moment. "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back." He paused for another awkward moment, not knowing what more there was to say. "That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." And with that, he walked off down the street.

 

Carl looked down at the sack in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his retirement watch and put it back on his wrist. Opening his wallet, he checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride that still smiled back at him from all those years ago.

 

He died one cold day after Christmas that winter. Many people attended his funeral in spite of the weather. In particular the minister noticed a tall young man that he didn't know sitting quietly in a distant corner of the church. The minister spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life. In a voice made thick with unshed tears, he said, "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can. We will never forget Carl and his garden."

 

The following spring another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care for Carl's garden." The flyer went unnoticed by the busy parishioners until one day when a knock was heard at the minister's office door. Opening the door, the minister saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer. "I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said.

 

The minister recognized him as the same young man who had returned the stolen watch and wallet to Carl. He knew that Carl's kindness had turned this man's life around. As the minister handed him the keys to the garden shed, he said, "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honor him."

 

The man went to work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and vegetables just as Carl had done. In that time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory and kept the garden as beautiful as he thought Carl would have kept it.

 

One day he approached the new minister and told him that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. He explained with a shy and happy smile, "My wife just had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday."

 

"Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the garden shed keys. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?" "Carl," he replied.

 

******************************************************************************************************

 

Daffodils Story

 

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say,

 

"Mother, you must come see the daffodils before they are over."

 

I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead.

 

"I will come next Tuesday, " I promised, a little reluctantly, on her third call.

 

Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy.

 

Still, I had promised, and so I drove there.

 

When I finally walked into Carolyn's house and hugged and greeted my grandchildren, I said, "Forget the daffodils, Carolyn!

 

The road is invisible in the clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these children that I want to see bad enough to drive another inch!"

 

My daughter smiled calmly and said, "We drive in this all the time, Mother."

 

"Well, you won't get me back on the road until it clears, and then I'm heading for home!" I assured her.

 

"I was hoping you'd take me over to the garage to pick up my car."

 

"How far will we have to drive?"

 

"Just a few blocks," Carolyn said. "I'll drive. I'm used to this."

 

After several minutes, I had to ask, "Where are we going?

 

This isn't the way to the garage!"

 

"We're going to my garage the long way," Carolyn smiled, "by way of the daffodils."

 

"Carolyn," I said sternly, "please turn around."

 

"It's all right, Mother, I promise. You will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience."

 

After about twenty minutes, we turned onto a small gravel road and I saw a small church.

 

On the far side of the church, I saw a hand-lettered sign that read, "Daffodil Garden."

 

We got out of the car and each took a child's hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path.

 

Then, we turned a corner of the path, and I looked up and gasped.

 

Before me lay the most glorious sight. It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes.

 

The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns -- great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow.

 

Each different-colored variety was planted as a group so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue.

 

There were five acres of flowers.

 

"But who has done this?" I asked Carolyn.

 

"It's just one woman," Carolyn answered. "She lives on the property.

 

That's her home." Carolyn pointed to a well-kept A-frame house that looked small and modest in the midst of all that glory.

 

We walked up to the house. On the patio, we saw a poster. "Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking" was the headline.

 

The first answer was a simple one."50,000 bulbs," it read.

 

The second answer was, "One at a time, by one woman. Two hands, two feet, and very little brain." The third answer was, "Began in 1958."

 

There it was. The Daffodil Principle.

 

For me, that moment was a life-changing experience.

 

I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than forty years before, had begun -- one bulb at a time -- to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountain top.

 

Still, just planting one bulb at a time, year after year, had changed the world.

 

This unknown woman had forever changed the world in which she lived.

 

She had created something of ineffable (indescribable) magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.

 

The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principles of celebration.

 

That is, learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time -- often just one baby-step at a time -- and learning to love the going, learning to use the accumulation of time.

 

When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things.

 

We can change the world.

 

"It makes me sad in a way," I admitted to Carolyn.

 

"What might I have accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five or forty years ago and had worked away at it 'one bulb at a time' through all those years.

 

Just think what I might have been able to achieve!"

 

My daughter summed up the message of the day in her usual direct way. "Start tomorrow," she said.

 

It's so pointless to think of the lost hours of yesterdays.

 

The way to make learning a lesson of celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only ask, "How can I put this to use today?"

 

Have a Blesses Day
Dave and Barbara

 

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