Flowers

I grew up in garden apartments in Queens, but the terminology was a misnomer. Our housing development had great lawns and trees but few gardens. It was dominated by the stoops, playgrounds and big parking lots where we played all kinds of ball. 

In the gardening world, I was a late bloomer. I was 40 when I purchased a small ranch house whose gardens were woefully untended. I got to work. I started a friendship patch with perennials from friends with prolific gardens. I added herb, shade, butterfly and hummingbird gardens. I planted chicks and hens and bee balm with my children. Throughout, I learned to flow with the seasons of gardening. Spring evenings, I raked in the waning light, unearthing pachysandra and myrtle. Mornings, I planted caramel coral bells, golden creeping Jennys, coreopsis, snakeroot and ligularia. Summers, I watered, weeded and mulched. In the fall, I watched as nature withered, impressed by the few impatiens still alive in the shade of a giant Hosta. When snow covered all, I felt peaceful. My garden needed rest, and so did I. 

These days, I spend less time in my garden and more at my easel. Yet I find myself steeped in floral canvases no matter what the season. As Frida Kahlo said, “I paint flowers so they will not die.”