Spring 2011

Sitting in the midst of a modest garden—that which remains in the spring of 2011 following four years of essentially absent ownership—I see a place different than four years ago. But then, why not? I am different. My life is different. During the eight years I dug and hauled and planted and watered—watched, waited and smiled and sometimes wept—this garden was a place of refuge, joy, regret and catharsis. I have been reminded this early spring—one that opens the door to a Texas summer without having offered thirst-quenching water that is essential to all things living that pretty much rely on nature’s generosity—I have been reminded that my labors take me only so far. The remainder is all about trust and acceptance.

Over the last few years I have become accustomed to hearing that every thought is a prayer—truly, a reminder that we need to pay attention to what we ask for, hope for, wish for, dare for. So I guess that what I write here is one of those prayers. I have come to this place I called home for most of the first decade of this new millennium. Here I have been reminded, once again, of how and why it became my home—understanding the causes and effects, entertaining the regrets that come with loss, hesitantly accepting the truths about the rise and fall of life and our lives. This accepting feels strange.

My generation has grown old. When our Hollis first cousins gathered on April 2nd in the Woodlands north of Houston for what has become a twice-annual event, I felt a little like I was watching our parents. But it would have had to be our parents in their later years. We talked about a little of everything, including health and medicine and vitamins and regular exercise—bad knees and back surgery and bouts with cancer. It is, indeed, our time to talk about these things.

In spite of the realities of growing old—that I am currently finding so beautifully revealed in Ram Dass’s collection of essays titled “Still Here”—we’re really doing okay. Cousin Byron, who had flown from suburban Phoenix to join us, said that he plans to be here for each of our gatherings in the future. This confederation of Hollis babies—all of us a little older than the baby boomers of post WWII notoriety-- was formed when our last blood aunt died two years ago. Aunt Mary, who was a true anchor for all of us, gave us cause to reunite and to realize that we want to see each other regularly. And we are being mindful and faithful to this fledgling confederation.

This week I had the opportunity to visit with the only remaining aunt my two sisters and I have. She was married to our mother’s only sibling. She is it—the end of the line—and these days she takes each day at a time, having chosen 15 months ago not to take any treatments for the liver cancer she was diagnosed with in late January of 2010. Since then, I’ve seen Aunt Edna only one other time. As I drove errands the other day on the eve of this visit with Aunt Edna, I called my middle sister to tell her about my fear that I would start crying when I saw how frail Aunt Edna has become. And then I started crying as I talked about it. “That’s okay,” Sue offered. “Just go on anyway. It’ll be all right.” I told my aunt the next day. Aunt Edna’s not crying, though, in spite of her obvious decline. Using pain medication only sparingly now, she’s still opting to travel to this part of the world, to the home she left 2-1/2 years ago, having decided to move to west Texas with her son and his wife. She told me though that she thinks this will be her last trip. But she also invited me to come see her in west Texas, as I travel between here and my home in New Mexico. Sounds like plans to hang in there for a while more, wouldn’t you say?

As I make preparations to leave for Albuquerque in a few days, I have things to do around here. On the calendar is a trip to my dentist to get the permanent crown the dentist laid the groundwork for last week. I’m grabbing visits here and there with friends and family. This barn home wants to be a little more organized and the tile floors swept and mopped before I lock the door. And the garden—yes the garden that has changed, grown smaller and yet lovely in its maturity—calls to be watered just one more time before I leave. We were delighted by a cool front a couple of days ago—one that unfortunately did not bring any rain to our area. We are, as I was told via email a few weeks ago by the weekend meteorologist in Waco, experiencing drier and warmer conditions than normal at least until June. Whatever water I can give the roses and still-young trees can be surely nothing more than a leg up. The summer will be a tough one, based on certain knowledge of Texas summers. But all 28 of the remaining rose bushes have been fed, as have a few of the younger trees.

And as I write, the sprinkler heads quietly do their work. It takes more than a day to move them around the entire garden. I’ve done just about all I can. Birds and butterflies abound among the blooms. The hummers are here. Chimes placed here and there sound their song, prompted by some nice breezes. I think we’re all doing just about the best we can. The remainder is all about trust and acceptance.

Spring 2011—Normangee, Texas (April 13, 2011)
R. Harold Hollis