A Garden's Labor

During my brief visit with my Dad, we went to the Boerner Botanical Gardens in Whitnall Park. It's been years since I've been to the gardens, which are one of the highlights of the Milwaukee county park system. Years ago, the park included a section with thousands and thousands of tulips, each year carefully planted according to various color schemes. Since it's well past tulip season, we didn't venture to that part of the park.

However, the roses were in their glory, as well as many of the perennials. Two specimens seared in my mind's eye were the alliums with their enormous flowering globes and the 'Sum and Substance' hosta with its massive leaves.

The garden's web site includes this bit of history:

Two federal programs having the greatest impact on Whitnall Park (and other parks as well) were the Civilian Conservation Corps, more commonly referred to as the CCC, and the Works Progress Administration, or the WPA.

And these days, much of the upkeep is at the hands of volunteers, so says Dad (who also reminds me the volunteer community is an essential vertebra in the backbone that is America's workforce). Thus I am reminded gardens and people go hand-in-hand; each shapes and cultivates the other.

Happy Father's Day

My Dad was the solid wall I leaned against after my Mom's death. My Dad demonstrated real dedication to his life's work and continues to do so through his varied volunteer work at the age of 74. Sometimes I was privileged to accompany him to the office on Saturday when I could sit in his swivel chair or walk through the shop where Important Things were being built. My Dad is the reason for my near obsessive-compulsive behavior, the reason I check the stove burners are off half a dozen times before I leave the house. I love Big Band jazz because of my Dad. My Dad knows that sometimes I need to talk his ear off. My Dad's eyes are sparkling, laughing eyes. My Dad likes puns, really bad puns. He complies with my requests for letters because he knows I am a keeper and shaper of memory. My Dad reads my poems, believes the world needs artists, tells me about the poets he sees on the News Hour. I will always be my father's child. All of my father's children believe they are his favorite one. And we all are right in our belief.