The gathering in Gail’s garden

Lately, the lilies have taken the stage in Gail’s spectacular garden.

I wish I could tell you each lily’s name, but I wasn’t paying attention when I was told.

Some of them turn their faces straight up to the sun and sky — the yellow one with the pale purple frill on the edges, the white one with the red blush around fiery orange stamens, the creamy one with the burgundy rim.

Some are larger and gaze downward—the pale rose one with the apple-red heart, or the butter-yellow one that dusts your elbow with orange pollen if you brush past.

Some are head-high. Some are ankle-low.

Some have simple bell shapes and simple colors to match: peach, yellow, or parchment white. Others are more complex, or wear colors so impossible to describe that words can’t do them justice.

Gail could tell you the name of each one, but she died from a fatal stroke on Valentine’s Day this February. For almost eight years before that, strokes had robbed her of the ability to speak or write, so she couldn’t remind me of their names then either.

I am sure Gail introduced each of them to me as she planted them, but — as I said — I wasn’t paying attention.

Anyway, Gail’s nameless lilies rule the stage today, and they speak for her in their eloquent silence.

But before the lilies it was the irises that held the stage — the white one with the blue edge, the pale yellow one with the burgundy rim, the deep purple one that looks like black velvet just as the sun sets, and a dozen others.

And before the irises it was the peonies that put in their brief cameo appearance — the fire-engine red blossoms the size of cantaloupes, the white and gold ones that look like sunny-side up eggs, the orange ones that fade to yellow as they age, and others.

But though they are all there in Gail’s spectacular garden — the peonies, and the irises, and the lilies — they are like family members who have never met, because they are never in bloom at the same time. Each morning in Gail’s garden dawns differently beautiful than the day before. Sometimes peonies, sometimes irises, sometimes lilies, but never all at once.

All of them beautiful and silent, with names I never learned because I wasn’t paying attention when Gail had a voice to introduce them to me.

The peonies and irises have left the stage. It is the lilies today, but soon they too will yield to the four-o’clocks, mums, and late-blooming snow-white clematises who never met a peony, iris or lily.

And then, when winter comes, they will all sleep underground and wait for spring to raise the stage curtain again.

Gail died in February while her garden was bare and frozen, and as I considered how, when and where to hold a memorial to her, only one option made sense, though it would have to wait almost five months to happen. I decided to host a “Gathering in Gail’s Garden” on Sunday, July 8, when her spectacular lilies would be in full bloom.

I must admit, after she died in February my heart was so broken I struggled to trust that her garden would ever bloom again. How could it, without her there to make it happen?

But perennial gardens — like perennial memories — have a way of coming back to us when we need them most, don’t they? And Gail’s garden did come back in all its glory for her July memorial.

As the yard filled with people — 50, 60, 70 and more — my heart filled with joy as I hugged and welcomed each of them. And yet — just like Gail’s plants — many of them had never met each other before this Gathering.

Lynn and Ellen knew each other because they had worked together. They were there because Gail had worked with them, too.

And then there were my co-workers — Bill, Mike, Jim and others, their wives with them. They were all there because Gail was their friend, too.

And Laura, Mary Ann and Margaret were there, who helped Gail with rehab, therapy and caregiving sessions after her first stroke.

Thirty or more neighbors were there, who knew Gail through our roll-and-stroll ventures around the neighborhood.

And family members — Mo, Jamie, Bill, Debbie, Greg, Jeff and others—who were also at our wedding 49 years ago. And their children, who weren’t born when that party happened. And grandchildren, younger still.

But like the peonies, irises, and lilies in Gail’s garden, many of them had never met each other face to face — until this day.

As they mingled and told smiling tales of Gail, the garden rang with laughter, the unmistakable sound of fellowship. All were called together by their love of Gail, and when they finally met, they saw how much they had in common.

Seeing them all together was a powerful moment for me, like the curtain-call at the end of a beautiful play when all of the actors meet to take a bow, and you realize that even if many of them never had a scene together, the play was whole and complete because of their part in it. Others like Beth and Jim couldn’t be there due to health reasons, but they were as vital to Gail’s life as a play’s prop builders are.

The memorial is over now. Everyone has gone back home. Most went home with some of Gail’s bulbs that I had divided for them to plant in their own gardens to remember her by.

Today all is quiet again, but I have Gail’s garden to keep me company, because Gail’s garden was not just her hobby; it IS her autobiography. I spend a lot of time out there, finding peace.

And when I do, each flower speaks Gail’s name to me.

Because now, at last, I am ready to pay attention.

Author, musician and storyteller TR Kerth is a retired teacher who has lived in Sun City Huntley since 2003. Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com. Can’t wait for your next visit to Planet Kerth? Then get TR’s book, “Revenge of the Sardines,” available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online book distributors.

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