"My Father's Garden" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
When my parents retired, they built a house by a quiet lake in the northwoods of Wisconsin. It was a place of peace, of long reflections, and of life lived simply but richly. The house overlooked the water, where gentle ripples mirrored the sky, and loons called in the twilight. But when I think of that home, it is not the lake I see first—it is my father’s gardens.
To the north of the house, his hands shaped the land into a bounty of food: rows of corn stretching toward the sky, vines of beans and peas curling up their stakes, potatoes hidden beneath dark, rich soil. Strawberries and raspberries ripened under the summer sun, while tomatoes—golden and red—hung like ornaments from their vines. The work here was steady, predictable, rewarding. My father understood this rhythm well.
To the south, however, was where the magic happened. There, the earth was not tilled for sustenance, but for beauty. My father’s flower gardens were a place of color and quiet wonder, winding pathways leading through dahlias, gladiolas, begonias, roses, lilacs. Impatiens and coleus spilled over the edges, painting the landscape in hues both vibrant and soft. Birds darted among the blooms, their songs blending with the whispering breeze.
At the entrance to these gardens, he built a gateway—wooden lattice, painted green and white, with two benches nestled beneath. This was the threshold to his sanctuary. From those benches, one could sit and simply be. My parents often did just that, side by side in the late afternoon, not speaking much, just listening—to the birds, the rustling leaves, the soft lapping of the lake. It was the kind of silence that spoke of understanding, of lives intertwined over time.
My father was a good man. He was also stubborn, and I, his child, was no different. The acorn does not fall far from the tree, does it? In my teenage years, we clashed often, both unwilling to yield. Yet, with the clarity that time grants, I see now what I could not always see then—his strength, his patience, his quiet kindness.
I miss him. There is so much I would tell him now if I could. But in my mind, I return to that bench, to that entrance to the garden. I imagine us all there—him, my mother, myself—basking in the simple blessing of being together. And when I close my eyes, I can walk once more through my father’s garden, where love still lingers in every petal and leaf.
~Wylddane
To the north of the house, his hands shaped the land into a bounty of food: rows of corn stretching toward the sky, vines of beans and peas curling up their stakes, potatoes hidden beneath dark, rich soil. Strawberries and raspberries ripened under the summer sun, while tomatoes—golden and red—hung like ornaments from their vines. The work here was steady, predictable, rewarding. My father understood this rhythm well.
To the south, however, was where the magic happened. There, the earth was not tilled for sustenance, but for beauty. My father’s flower gardens were a place of color and quiet wonder, winding pathways leading through dahlias, gladiolas, begonias, roses, lilacs. Impatiens and coleus spilled over the edges, painting the landscape in hues both vibrant and soft. Birds darted among the blooms, their songs blending with the whispering breeze.
At the entrance to these gardens, he built a gateway—wooden lattice, painted green and white, with two benches nestled beneath. This was the threshold to his sanctuary. From those benches, one could sit and simply be. My parents often did just that, side by side in the late afternoon, not speaking much, just listening—to the birds, the rustling leaves, the soft lapping of the lake. It was the kind of silence that spoke of understanding, of lives intertwined over time.
My father was a good man. He was also stubborn, and I, his child, was no different. The acorn does not fall far from the tree, does it? In my teenage years, we clashed often, both unwilling to yield. Yet, with the clarity that time grants, I see now what I could not always see then—his strength, his patience, his quiet kindness.
I miss him. There is so much I would tell him now if I could. But in my mind, I return to that bench, to that entrance to the garden. I imagine us all there—him, my mother, myself—basking in the simple blessing of being together. And when I close my eyes, I can walk once more through my father’s garden, where love still lingers in every petal and leaf.
~Wylddane
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