Memorial Gardens


On first glance I don’t see the flowers in my garden as an array of beautiful colors that bring me peace, or even metaphors for life. I remember the people who gave me the flowers, or a start from their garden.


My mother-in-law didn’t give me many happy memories of her, but she gave me deep purple irises to plant in my front walkway, and the monkey grass I can’t seem to keep under control. (She didn’t drive. She would argue over a penny and disappear for hours in a store when you only had ten minutes to buy the ingredient you needed for supper.)


My mother gave me the angel statue and flowers surrounding it. They bloom early in the spring along with the crocus my neighbor, Linda, gave me.

(The thrill of the first blooms reminds me to make the most of every day.)

Linda gave me the gorgeous azalea bush in the first photo and many other plants. Linda hails from the Philippines, and over the years each succulent dish she prepared and brought to our door with her shy smile, we gobbled up.


This tree my dad gave us for an anniversary present after our weeping willow tree died in the front yard. He had given us the start of the willow when we moved into our home in 1986. The above tree was hit by lighting and the top half died. Dean cut the top trunk off, and it grew as you see. (The children in the neighborhood love climbing this tree.)

The tiger lilies, orchid-colored irises, mint, and many other flowers in our garden came from our retired postwoman’s garden in Madison, Georgia.

(I still miss the hollow sweet gum tree we cut down a few years ago.) It shaded our front bedroom from the evening sun for thirty years.


The mother and baby statue was kicked and broken by my step granddaughter, Alexandria, when she was about ten. (She is a senior in college now.) Dean fixed it before I got home from work, DKPD.


The statue of the woman being held by hands was broken in a storm by a fallen branch, and Dean fixed it with concrete caulk. The statue was purchased on one of my many trips to see my parents on their twenty-five acres, or “the farm” in Forsyth, Georgia. Sometimes, I would drive the back way down Panola Rd. to Hwy. 155, to McDonough, then I-75 South. Halfway between Stone Mountain and Forsyth, there was a statuary place with goats hanging out on the roof where I bought the lady statue for my stone garden.


The jasmine on the back fence was a mother’s day present from my daughter, Nikki. The original gift was planted on the side of the deck, but I moved it after a couple of years to its current location. It needed more shade. I sympathized.


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