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As I watered my geraniums today, I was reminded of my grandmother. The scent, although subtle, took me back to times when I would visit my grandparents’ house on the mountain.  My grandmother, whom we called Ana,  was an avid gardener.  I don’t know if she always loved gardening or if the feel of the earth helped her sooth her soul after the death of her only daughter.  What I do know is my grandmother introduced me to a love for houseplants and flowers.

In the early 1970’s my grandparents moved from a house on a farm to a house on a mountain. Attached to the house, close to the kitchen, was a greenhouse.  My parents moved our family back to Pennsylvania shortly after my grandparents moved into their new house; growing up we spent a lot of time there.  When I visited, Ana would always take me to the greenhouse and tell me about her plants.  Geraniums were frequent flowers in her sanctuary.

The house overlooked woods. My grandmother had daffodils planted in the earth among the trees.  Each spring, the woods would come alive with the yellow flowers.  The gardens around the house were somewhat natural, with annuals planted among the shrubbery.  

In the summer my grandparents would leave their house on the mountain and go to their summer cottage in Canada.  The stairs leading to the front door of the cottage were lined with geranium laden boxes and perhaps there were some on the porch as well. The cottage gardens were planted with many flowers, including phlox, daisies, foxgloves, and forget-me-nots. The paths were lined with hydrangea bushes. If there were fairy gardens when I was growing up, I could imagine one there.

Eventually my grandparents started to spend winters at a small house in California.  One year, Ana brought back a small, unusual cutting of a plant for me. She told me it was an Aloe Vera and it would grow if I stuck it in some soil.  All through my teenage years I kept it in my bedroom, on my table of plants and flowers.  When I went to college, my parents took care of the indoor garden that I had. After college,  I moved out west and somehow the aloe ended up in my parents tiny greenhouse. Two years later, when I moved back east, I found my aloe dying with one spot of green.  I tended to the aloe and it revived.  Four decades later, I still have the aloe plant my grandmother gave me; it has survived  three near deaths, but it still stands strong.

As Ana grew older, she became allergic to something in soil.  One by one she had to let her plants go.  

A hobby that was so essential to my grandmother had almost ended.  When she moved from the mountain, to the little house where she spent her remaining years, she had very few plants.  However, some plants are hardy and can be grown in water, so Ana sought out philodendron and heavenly bamboo; she had those growing in her  sun room.  Until she could no longer care for her plants, my grandmother was the intrinsic gardener.

    Written and submitted by Deanne Burch

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. At our cottage on Lake Muskoka, I have a photograph that is similar to the one  pictured here. However, in my other photograph, there is a larger group of  young women performing in the water ballet. At first, when I looked at the photograph, I thought I was part of the group. When I looked more closely, I saw my father sitting on the rocks and I was beside him. I found my mother with her permed hair.  I think I even found my younger brother with blonde hair. My future mother in law was in the photo as well. All of us were sitting half way down the rocks with our backs to the camera enjoying the production that was taking place before us. Further up on flat land , just behind the rocks, were chairs set out for the matriarchs of the club; these were for them to sit on and be comfortable.

 As a young woman I remember the ease with which I could scamper up and down those rocks; I promised myself that I would always be able to do that.

The tradition of the Regatta at this club, has continued all my life; the water ballet has metamorphosed into a production with more deck work, than swimming. Going through old photos today,  I found photos of the Regatta through the generations. 

When my daughters took part in the water ballet, they still wore the dreaded white bathing suits; some of those girls had taken synchronized swimming in the winter. 

I was the proud mother sitting at the bottom of the rocks, but ready to scramble further up the rocks if I couldn’t see properly. By now the matriarchs who were sitting on the chairs had changed slightly. There were grandmothers of friends of mine, sitting in the chairs that were reserved for them. It was about 1976 then, my mother and mother in law had not yet graduated to that position.

Eventually I had  grandchildren of my own. I, was a now a happy grandmother,  perched  halfway up the rocks to watch the water ballet or the races that my grandchildren participated in. I still felt nimble, able to clamber up and down the rocks;  yet, the odd time, an arm of a young man or woman would reach out  to help me, if needed. How dare they? I was in control of myself — not yet old enough to need help.

 The water ballet had changed. Now there was deck work instead of the precision of the water ballet.

The girls had more fun doing this and always were smiling. No more white bathing suits, just a conglomeration of different suits and styles. My grandson took part in the races as well and for a couple of years was first place in every race he went in. Then he grew tired of it— said that he would use his cups for a pencil holder.

Life was changing fast. Looking up to the top of the rocks, I saw a few of my “older” friends sitting in the chairs reserved for the older women. “Really”, I thought,  “they can’t be old enough to sit there!”. Maybe my friends were arthritic and not able to move as well as I could.

For several years, I watched the Regatta from whatever vantage point was best for me. I still sat on the rocks to watch, although I was finding the rocks less and less comfortable. The grandchildren were growing quickly and sometimes were not even participating in the Regatta. There was no need for me to be present at all, except that I could visit with friends that I  had not seen all winter, and watch their grandchildren participate.

In 2019, I fell in the bathroom. I don’t know how I fell, but I broke four ribs so badly that I needed to have rods to stabilize them. I was no longer the agile person I thought I was. Time had, I guess, taken its toll on me. I arrived at the lake in time for the Regatta. I was anxious to see old friends and the Regatta was a way to do so. For a while, I talked to people on the dock. Then I chatted with friends on the steps of the club.  I really wanted to watch the age old tradition of the water ballet. Where was I going to sit? My ribs were still sore.  I didn’t want to sit on the rocks and take the chance of falling again. I saw on empty spot on one of the chairs at the top of the rocks. I plunked myself down beside one of my friends and wondered how many of the young people there would look at us and say “I am never going to sit in one of those chairs. I will always be able to get around the way I do today.” 

I am now one of the matriarchs who sit at the top of the rocks, grateful to be alive and able to enjoy all that life has in store for me.

In the northern hemisphere the darkest day of the year is December 21st. Although the days start to get longer after this day, many people struggle with the continued darkness. Does the darkness affect you?

When I was younger, the end of January to beginning of February were darkest for me. Now the lack of light does not seem to affect me as much. In fact there is something quite magical about seeing lights twinkling in the dark.

Why do the long days of December no longer bother me? Could this be because when I have felt like my world has crumbled, and all I see is darkness , I manage to pull back to the light? Or, perhaps this because I have learned that brighter days are ahead? There have been times that the cold fingers of the dark, muddled with what life has handed me, start to seep in. I do my best to keep them from grabbing on..

Last week, the week before Christmas, I had two unexpected periods of reflection one dark and one surprisingly light…

Dark:

On Monday of last week, I saw a friend who had been planning a nice weekend trip with his family. I asked him how his weekend was and he just shook his head. Later, when we both had time to talk, he told me his wife wanted a divorce…

Memories of December 1999 came flooding back: I had been married for a year and a half; it was evident that my marriage was troubled. I thought we were trying to work through it, when my then husband decided to take some time away to “think’ about our marriage. At the time, I was newly pregnant with my first child. This was early December.

When the father of my child arrived back from his trip, he told me he wanted a separation. I was not “allowed” to tell my family about our separation because we were to spend the holiday together. All through the holiday season, I had to pretend with that we were happily married, planning a future together.

….My friend, at a different place in his life now than I was 22 years ago, also had to “act’ as if everything were normal. For me the black bitterness of hiding the truth came back to me. The dark of what I felt from my past, made me have understanding of what he was and still is experiencing.

Light

My Father-In-Law passed away early in November of this year. A few days before Christmas, my husband asked me if I remembered my first Christmas without my father. Strangely I do…

In September of 2010 my father took his life. My family or origin was in shock, grieving, and trying to pick up the pieces, while raising our own young children. The night my father died, my mother left the house they had lived in for three decades and went back only once. After living with a friend for a month, my mother found somewhere new to live,

When the time came for Christmas, my mother went to California to be with my sister, my brother went to be with his wife’s family and my family went to the new house where my mother now lived. We wanted to be with my grandmother, who had just turned 95, so she would not be alone for Christmas.

What could have been a truly sad Christmas, was actually quite beautiful. My husband drove up from Maryland to Central Pennsylvania, with all the presents. I followed, with our three children, a few hours later. We had simple meals. The space was warm and inviting, my mother had put a tree in her house for us. We rose above our sadness for each other. What I remember most is driving my grandmother over to my mother’s house on Christmas Eve. The sun had set and snow was lightly falling. The street into the my mother’s neighborhood was lined with tea lights in paper bags. I felt at peace for the first time since my father died. The heavy darkness lifted from my soul.

Desmond Tutu once said “Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.” If you suffer during the dark months, I hope you find some light.

In memory of the victims of PAN AM Flight 103 (this was written 3 years ago on the 30th anniversary of this tradgedy).

I Remember

The fall of my Junior year in college, I left my college in New Jersey to study with Syracuse University in London.  I had applied to the Syracuse program because I needed a change from my college, which had begun feeling small. 

I wanted to spend a year in London, but was afraid I would be homesick.  I fully intended to meet friends from my hometown and travel during Winter break. The Syracuse program gave me the opportunity to extend my stay to a year if I was happy. About two weeks in to my semester in London I decided to stay for the full year.

I loved my time in London.  I cannot put into words what a wonderful and exciting experience it was for all of us who studied there.  We were young, practically still children, full of hopes and dreams. 

30 years ago today the dreams were taken from 35 of my fellow students. The tragedy of Pan Am flight 103 changed all who it touched.  For those people who were connected to the disaster over Lockerbie, Scotland: I remember.

Pictures flow through my mind…

Traveling for the first few days of winter break with my roommate, Deirdre

Leaving London 

Traveling to  Amsterdam, Cologne, Munster, Brugge and Brussels

Arriving at the Brussels train station where Deirdre and I would part ways:

She to a family she knew in Belgium, 

I back to London to meet with friends for Christmas.

Liz, at the train station saying “There has been an accident on one of the planes”

Me stupidly saying “was anyone hurt?”

Being told, “Everyone is dead.”

Darkness fell,

Walking from the Syracuse center after laying flowers on the steps…

Being approached by another student “Sarah, thank God…I did not know your last name, there was another Sarah from our program on flight 103.”

Slowly finding out who I had known:

Ken Bissett, who sat next to me on the flight to London and was supposed to return for spring semester…

Miriam Wolf with her vibrant hair and welcoming personality.

The others: Pamela, from Bowden; Turhan;the Cocker twins…

Feeling guilty that I had not been on the plane.

Lighting candles all over Europe, In remembrance for those that had died. 

Moving through the dark. Finding light.  Letting go of the guilt.