Day 69: Haven

Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

We seem to be in full summer mode now, when the mornings tend to be sunny, just warm enough, and still. That is the time that we turn on the fountain and settle into this corner of the garden with the butterflies and hummingbirds. Summer afternoons mean a wind shift that brings fog eastward off the ocean and slithering down the hill. Whether or not the fog makes it down this far, the cold wind certainly does. It bends the trees and bangs the doors. That is when we retreat inside.

John makes it his job to keep the fountain functioning and clean - not an easy task with the potato vine dropping petals from overhead and with the ongoing mystery of the hose... a nighttime visitor (a raccoon, perhaps) relentlessly unhooks and steals this six-inch piece of plastic, carrying it halfway across the garden but never eating it through. No amount of tightening will keep it safe. John has resorted to placing a heavy rock on top of a platter in the bowl to make it harder for the culprit, but some mornings we can still see that the whole contraption has been moved.

Today is First Day, again, and I’m not feeling very philosophical. Just tired and in need of the quiet rhythm of the fountain. May your holiday be peaceful and safe, and may you connect, somehow, with those you love and the ones that you remember.

Day 68: Love Letter

The Hebe, a native of New Zealand, is perfect for a San Francisco garden, flourishing as it does in coolish summers and mild winters. We have three - a big, tall bushy one in the back that, in late summer, bursts with bright pink flowers, and two that I cut like short hedges along the path. The latter two give us a smaller spray of purple flowers in the spring and summer. In fact, they’re just beginning to open now. The Hebe is named after the Greek goddess of youth and, though we have only boys between us, it seems fitting to feature it today: three bushes, three flowers, three boys. 

Among many other gifts, our children serve as the time markers in our lives. They grow like weeds even as we feel like we are standing still. And then one day, the aging process seems to freeze. At least it does for me. In my mind and in my heart I can never quite see them as the adults they obviously are, even as they grow families and careers of their own. They’re still my kids. I want them to be happy and stay safe. That's all.

This is a love letter to the boys I cannot see or touch: happy birthday, Hans; stay safe, Jesse and Jack. I love you.

Day 67: A Matter of Time

Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

As predicted, the Angel Trumpets that I celebrated here just a few days ago have already started their decline, though it’s been a bumper crop. This picture was taken late afternoon yesterday; by this morning, several of these very same flowers are on the verge of old and soggy. Their neighbors, meanwhile - the agapanthus (below) and the hydrangea (behind) - are moving through their cycles at a more measured pace. You can just see the long agapanthus stems beginning to emerge. Soon enough, they’ll rise above the mother plant and open for a month-long spray - blue fireworks above the green. Meanwhile, the hydrangea’s emergence has been glacial by comparison, teasing us for weeks: leaves appeared in March, filled out in April, the buds in early May. And now, one, just one half-opened crown hints at the glowing mound of rich, deep hydrangea pink we’ll see in the center of our garden some weeks hence. It’s just a matter of time.

Last night over virtual cocktails, John and my brother-in-law agreed that they can imagine themselves here in this suspended state for at least another year if that’s how long it takes. It’s better than the alternative, they say, and they’re content to wait. On most days I can get there, too. The garden helps. Without it, time would seem to stop completely. As it is, and as I’ve said before, the days go by with little fuss and are nearly indistinguishable. However long the “duration” continues, we are lucky to be here. 

But it’s not just us retirees who are beginning to think about our confinement as being longer term. Son Hans has learned that the New York Times will not call their employees back to the city until at least September; son Jesse is waiting to hear if his classroom will or won’t be virtual in the fall; a friend’s tech company has just decided to keep its offices closed until January; and, it is reported today, FaceBook intends to make at least half its workforce virtual permanently. Half! Permanently! How will all this change the nation’s landscape over the months and years to come as others follow suit? What ripple effects do such changes imply? The list is long, starting with empty office buildings, laid-off maintenance and cleaning workers, idle lunch spots and food trucks, and ending with mass migration of the wealthy working class from cities like ours… Obviously, there are plenty of folks (I hope) already thinking through the cascade of social and economic consequences this new virtual reality will wreak. Those of us confined to the sidelines (and our gardens) will have to wait and see.