Golden Summer

The marigold had the finest dance in the garden. No withering sport was she. In fact she had plenty for her amusement. Her growth upward was when her head was met one day by a butterfly, a flowering thing herself. There was a cheerful holler followed by the light thumping of feet on the lawn as they tried to catch it. The marigold yawned.

The children whispered in each other's ear. They played often near the garden beds, on the bench, on the ground, the garden stool even fit the two of them as it was extra wide. The boy and girl were cousins who enjoyed the summer holidays wishing upon stars, glancing through magazines much too old for them but their favorite thing to do was to watch the people cascade through the gardens. Hide in the bushes and hear a word or two or maybe more. A magnificent future ahead of them or so they imagined. It depends on your version of magnificent I suppose.

The estate that the gardens adorned could be referred to as magnificent for sure. A prefect relic kept beautifully across time. Made of great stone slabs piled onto one another to reach a solid grey roof. It sat there presenting more than a view with a history of memories to fill a book of it's own. This particular story is one of them.

The children summered there each year beginning at the age of four. Their eyes opened wide at the sight of these gardens, no ordinary gardens, they were magical and happy.

The gardener was Mary. A pleasantly plump matronly type who took these two under her wing for part of the day. To teach them, it's important for children to learn about the grounds she considered and how to care for something. So she spoke rapidly to them about the time to plant, which flowers go first depending on when they opened, how to arrange it so that no garden bed looked empty or withered. The garden was her palette and her hands the key to ambrosia.

Freida and Adam were the children. Oh, how they admired her. A skinned knee, no problem. A sneeze, here's a tissue ready. Nap time? Be my guest, the grass over there makes the best bed and the tree has plenty of shade. She worked hard and the two languished in the sun as if it was their shiny umbrella.

They could see the world from this stately backyard. What more world could there be? Bursts of color everywhere, a great tree, people visiting, cars back and forth. Everything was exciting to a four year old. They saw an argument once way up on the balcony. There was Auntie standing with a gentleman, her banker. Loud words they couldn't understand. They giggled with delight when Auntie threw a champagne flute at the man who staggered back again but when he left they stopped their giggle for the sound of sobbing. Auntie then drying her eyes on her blouse before drinking the rest of the champagne right out of the bottle. They kept that a secret and as secrets usually are, soon forgotten especially for children.

They liked Auntie too. She was the “old maid” but they weren't to call her that. In fact she was 23 but had no interest in marriage. She “did her own thing.” Freida in particular made a mental note when hearing this to find out what it meant to do your own thing because she much admired
Auntie.

Mary called out one day, "children, here!” They went to her side. “This garden needs a name, you two pick.” The sky opened up just then as if it was called to and shone the brightest yellow onto the garden giving a cloud an angle to light the view. The boy's eyes fell upon the marigold doing her final stretch for the day. She blinked back at him or maybe he imagined it and for the slightest moment he was mesmerized. He stared, he stuttered, he stopped. “Golden Summer is the name for the garden.”

Mary said directly, “that's a season.”

“A season with a name,” with raised eyebrows the child spoke.

“Indeed,” Mary said. “Golden Summer it is.”

Then they were ten years old, the year 1944. It was her birthday, the 2nd of June and a great party there was.

The marigold grew bolder and stronger each year she began again. Each season an open hand to feed her with air, water, sunlight. She knew those things as sustenance, as a feeling that made her special.

“Wait a minute,” swat, swat. “Get lost,” and she stood still as if in a sort of anger. The damned bee again to bother her. Quite enamored was the bee, golden worship. It stammered, “b, b, but I can't stop.”

The marigold sighed and redirected her attention to the group of ten year olds in party hats who were quite unscheduled at the moment, running around almost hysterically at the freedom a birthday party gives. The radio blared which heightened the mood. Even the bee got a little crazy. The flower swayed in the breeze or was it by the music. The bee then did too, across the flower tops it zig zagged. They never fly straight as an arrow unless your watching them don't you know. If a marigold could shriek then shriek she did from her inside as she watched the bee head straight for the children. Oh no!

There was no ointment back then for bee stings, only tomatoes and this they believed worked and so it did. Mary hurried across the great lawn with a basket of tomatoes and a spoon. She gathered the pulp and spread it across tiny hands, foreheads, arms and hineys. Mary and her husband found the bee's nest and destroyed it. Another party would never be ruined. If each summer had a lesson then this one would be to pay attention when a bee is around.

Skip ahead a few years. The children are 14 with all the adolescent behavior of a teen in that time which wasn't much behavior at all.

They were learning to cuss this summer. Well, that's how they would become adults. They all did didn't they, the grown-ups spew a word or two once in a while. So just about every second word that came out of their mouth was “damn” this or “damn” that. What an “ass,” and a third finger might arise when their temperaments got between the two. “Well, I swear,” Adam was telling a story. “The “F'n clown drove all the way to the city with his F'n top down (referring to the convertible the great uncle had just bought), just to show off to the dames. The damned idiot.” He was on a roll Adam was but before the next expletive could escape his mouth a hard slap came from behind to ring his ear.

“That will be enough,” said Mary. Not in my garden, you'll taint the wind.” She slammed her feet as she walked away befuddled at the moment. Marigold glared in a stunned amusement at the two of them with just a twinge of disappointment. Freida had changed her mind a little, I do not wish to be a grown up, not yet.

What was the lesson this summer? Never test the wind.

The next day Adam made up for his insult by watering the flowers. He did all the gardening for Mary that day and she most appreciated it but didn't let it show. “How proud I am of your manners now,” and as a proper youth he bowed. Now he's a man.

Mary had no secrets and no wishes. She was one of the rare who had found her passion. Seeing the fruit of her actions in pleasing nature. Nature pleasing her. When you know your passion and are allowed to do what you want then you are happy. She woke each day with a purpose. She ended each day with a feeling of completion. Perspective was everything and so was the summer her everything.

Mary adored the children for she had none. She encouraged them in outdoor fun just so she could be near them. She taught them to savor it, to care for it, to pick it and to grow it back. Her promise to herself was to leave them just that, a little bit of herself in memory. She had nothing else to leave them now did she.

Every autumn Elisha, her husband who cared for the horses he loved, came to her and together they covered the gardens with tarps and wishes and hopes for the next year. Nine garden beds they tended. Nine garden beds that grew year after year.

At sixteen years old the summer was laden with friends. Boys and girls from the city visiting. Hand in hand they courted each other, drew each other's picture for entertainment, counted rose petals. Freida had a crush, he was all of 18 and she was not allowed to flirt but she did. She wore her shortest skirt, stuck her chin out as much as she could. “He will admire my lips,” she thought. With the way the sunlight hits the lipstick she had borrowed from Auntie. Well alright, she stole it but it was Auntie after all, hardly a theft. So she sat elegantly on the stone bench with her legs stuck straight out and her lips pursed and the rest was a daydream.

James nonchalantly pretending not to peek stood behind or beside depending what side you're on, next to the tree. Peering carefully, wearing his new suit with no tie and shoes that made his feet so sore that his smile appeared a grimace. His chest out, eyes squinting, she will find me irresistible. He stood there for an hour frozen in time. Freida aware slightly sat with her eyes closed, head in the air and her lips sticking out like shiny gum drops. Surely he will notice me. (They were the only two in the garden). She sat in that pose so long she was now afraid to move. What if he moves. What if he walks away. What do I do, what do I say and it's a good thing there is no such thing as telepathy or there would be a blank page.

Mary took this all in, in a second's glance and so to not startle Freida she hurried from the kitchen across the lawn and whilst Freida still in her reverie Mary took the napkin and wiped that shine right off her mouth. Before she could protest Mary spoke loudly, “James, here child pour the tea would you.” The rest was romance. The two didn't need a conversation breaker they had Mary and Freida looked at her with real love in her eyes.

The summer's lesson: know the value of a cup of tea, It can fix anything.

Year after year the children returned to visit. Not all of us have a home to return to or a golden garden but the simple things are there if we dare appreciate them. Calendars flip pages, photographs never change and a garden's nature is a stalemate to trust. Not going anywhere these flowers, no matter whose lives carried on around them. But still they grew, sweet fragrance travelling through the air.

It was thirty years after the actress died and the notes she kept inside were discovered. Different years, different genres for a new performance each year. Once fluttering leaflets tucked inside her book of keepsakes. Independent to the end, a great ornament on the shelf now belonged to them, “the kids,” as she affectionately called them. Good 'ol Auntie.

Now Mary sleeps gracefully below the earth at Marigold's feet. Once in a while if you tilted your head just right the earth sparkled. Her essence too in spirit, like her flowering friend carrying across miles.

The End.

Poems I, by Lisa A Lachapelle, Indie Published:

In Canada:

In USA/Int'l

By Lisa Lachapelle, Writer, Author. More of her work here and here.