The Flower Joyce Oroz

Today I was thinking about the day we bought our house almost nine years ago—you know, when houses were sold to the highest bidder, better known as the bubble.
My husband, being highly intelligent and practical, looked for a house with lots of concrete such as sidewalks and driveway. A postage-stamp lawn would be permissible.
I held out for a garden. I wanted trees, lawn, flowers and room for a vegetable garden.

The worst part of this story is that I got my way. We bought a little house on a BIG piece of dry sandy soil covered with gopher holes. Unfortunately I come from a long line of garden lovers and my DNA kicked in immediately. I shoveled and hoed, planted and watered until my body felt like one of the many snails I crushed. With lots of mulch and fertilizer, my plants and trees grew. 
Now I spend my time watering, feeding and trimming everything, not to mention fending off the deer, rabbits, gophers and snails.

Even though my body aches from the hard work, my heart sings every time I step outside. I see rose bushes from Lorraine, Tomi, Marlene, Wendy and Cindy. I have a giant fuchsia from Janice, a pelargonium from Barb, tulips from Laura, daffodils from Kay, a lovely flowering plant from Mindy and ground cover from Linda. My garden is where my family and friends are represented and remembered--in the colorful display of blooms that live in my heart.


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