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Tansy and Marigolds
Marigolds and Tansy - A Rescue Story
When I was a little girl, I learned to live at my
grandmother's house. It was the safest place I knew,
with an orchard of plum and Italian Prunes, dwarf
trees perfect for climbing even when training pants
were an integral part of your wardrobe. The Buffalo
River crawled along the edge of her property, home to
fresh water clams that could be caught and placed in
buckets, and minnows that refused such indignities.
But my favorite place was her garden.
There were flowers there I'd never seen, growing in
anonymous abandon until I reached the age with a need
to label things. One summer day when it was so hot
even the dirt in the shade warmed my toes, I found a
new patch of amazing color. I asked my grandmother
what they were and heard her say, “Miracles.”
Suspecting this was a case of an adult teasing me, I
did a double take but she looked perfectly serious.
There on my haunches, a dirty finger tracing ruffles
of orange and yellow, their pungent odor penetrating
my senses, it seemed entirely plausible that Miracles
grew in my Grandmother's garden.
A few seasons later I was there for spring planting.
Out of the large Almond Roca tin filled with seed
packets, I found an envelope with a picture of the
orange and yellow ruffled flowers. Eagerly I picked it
up and then saw in bold script: Marigolds. Miracles. I
was crushed. Obviously I hadn't heard what my
Grandmother said that day in the garden. Hearing my
disappointment, she pointed out that actually I was
right the first time. Wasn't it a miracle to see those
plants rise from ground that once held seeds? And
wasn't it a miracle the way flowers sometimes chose to
spring up in some other area of the garden,
unrequested by us (or even across the road in the
ditch?) They were the `delightful surprises' we looked
for. “Don't be crying because you heard Miracles
instead of Marigolds. It's better that way. You're
just lucky.”
I try to remember that luck, but sometimes look so
hard at the words in the world that I miss the
miracles behind them.
Recently we were blessed with Tansy, a little Lowchen
who came to us from rescue. Like the plant Tansy, our
little girl is persistent, finding life even between
cracks in the sidewalk and peering around the shadow
of a building to find the sun so she can bloom. She
came into our home shivering and not quite trusting
her legs but soon was bold enough to chance jumping
onto the couch. She's learned to trust a treat from my
fingers instead of needing it to be placed on the
floor. She wags at our voices and looks when she hears
her name. She's learned to breath, even when we pick
her up though she's still pretty stiff when we snuggle
her. She's learning you don't have to eat every piece
of kibble in the bowl; someone will replace it when
that's gone. One day she'll learn that car rides are
joyous things and not fearful trips to some unknown.
She'll know that our calling her means good things and
wonderful times and that she should come claim them. I
think she'll learn to play. That spirit is there. It's
learning how to let it go that's so hard. And I like
to think she'll learn to sleep on us. A contented
snore is a miracle we too often take for granted.
Watching Tansy grow I'm reminded again of how lucky I
am and how many miracles are here, just waiting to be
noticed. It's not that rescue is all joy anymore than
childhood was idyllic. There are scrapes, splinters,
scary things and biting bugs in both. But when it
comes down to it, rescue is like Grandmother's garden,
with amazing things springing from the earth. And
unlike that adage that we “reap what we sow” we're
really quite lucky because when you look, we started
with Marigolds and wound up with Miracles.
Copyright by Lu Wyland 2002
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