At the tender age of forty, I became interested in gardening. Last year I grew herbs in containers. This year I'm still growing herbs in containers, but Kevin and I have planted several things in the yard--a day lily, a hydrangea, two chrysanthemums, a tomato plant, and the May rose. My grandmother called it the May rose because it only blooms during the month of May. The May rose bush in her yard is nearly gone now, but years ago, my parents started a new rose bush in their yard. This spring my mother's friend Patrick, who does odd jobs for my parents, dug out a "start" of the rose bush for me. My mother instructed us to get some of the root, which was difficult because all the branches of the bush led to a central root ball. Patrick persevered and got a bit of the root although I'm not sure that the bush in my parents' yard will ever be quite the same. I drove home with a few prickly rose branches attached to a fragile looking bit of root. The branches were so long they extended all the way into the back seat.
When I got home, it was evident that my "start" of the rose bush needed to be planted right away. The little leaves attached to the branches were sagging wearily. Two neighbors helped me dig my hole and break up the soil. Another neighbor invited Sam over to play with her kids. My little rose bush was planted, and my next door neighbor said it would survive in our rocky soil because being an old fashioned rose, it would be "hardy as the dickens." I wondered if she was right though. After we planted my rose bush and pruned it a bit, it looked like I had planted two little green sticks upright in the yard.
I gave the rose bush a good watering like my neighbor said, but then I left it alone for a while. It was the end of March or early April. The weather was cool, and it rained a lot. It soon became evident that I had not paid enough attention to it. Instead of sprouting, one of its little ends dried up and turned black. My neighbor suggested that if something didn't happen soon, we might have to try again. I was dismayed.
Kevin was trying to get some grass seed to start in our yard at the time, and he began to water it and the May Rose faithfully twice a day. I would see him water the two little sticks every morning before he went to work, and I'd think, "This is why I married this man."
One Saturday night in April I dreamed about my grandmother. She passed away in May twenty-three years ago, but she appeared in my dream so clearly that you would have thought I had seen her last week. Grandmother was quiet and sweet. She had this way of making you feel comfortable in her presence. I would feel comfortable talking with her or being silent with her. When I was growing up, my family went to her and Grandaddy's house almost every Saturday. She made wonderful fried chicken. She'd always have a "cold drink" in the refrigerator for me, and there would usually be "ice milk" for dessert. Sometimes, I guess when I was there on a weekday, I'd watch "her show," As the World Turns, with her.
In my dream Grandmother was standing in her kitchen, which did not look like her kitchen anymore in that it was a beautiful warm pink color. Still I knew it was her kitchen. I don't remember anything else about the dream other than feeling her peaceful, sweet presence. I awoke happy to have had a dream about her. I dream about her every once in a while, but instead of enjoying those happy feelings my over active mind began its destructive work. "What did the dream mean?" I wondered. "Is something bad going to happen? Was Grandmother trying to tell me something? Is someone about to die?" I have a real talent for turning my happy feelings into troubled ones.
I woke up from this dream on Easter Sunday morning. Two days later, three days after my dream, the first little green shoots appeared on my grandmother's May rose, those two little sticks I planted in the ground.. All of Kevin's watering paid off, and it is, after all, an old timey rose, "hardy as the dickens." Maybe Grandmother was trying to tell me something. Maybe she was saying sometimes the dream doesn't mean anything bad at all. Sometimes it just means there will be flowers.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
There Are More Singers in the World than James Taylor
I was standing in Peck Hall looking at the English department's bulletin board when my professor asked me, "Are you thinking of pursuing an advanced course of study in English?" I must have responded yes because then I distinctly remember him replying in his matter of fact way, "You'll do fine."
He was my professor for both sophomore literature courses and a course called Introduction to Popular Culture, which I mostly took just because I wanted to take another one of his classes. He was also my academic adviser. He had his PhD, but I remember he told his sophomore literature students, "My name is Dunne. You can call me Mr. Dunne."
He was known for his dry, sarcastic sense of humor and his straightforwardness, but he was a sentimental, tender hearted man as well. He loved Fred Astaire movies, especially the ones with Fred and Ginger Rogers. I remember his wife saying that on a trip to England he cried when he saw the memorial to T.S. Eliot at Westminster Abbey. He gave simple, straightforward advice on writing that I find useful to this day. He would say, "Read what you've written out loud, and if it sounds wrong, then it probably is wrong."
No one with the exception of my parents was ever more encouraging academically than Mr. Dunne. He nominated me for the English department's highest honor three times. He wrote glowing letters of recommendation for me and helped me get graduate teaching assistantships at two different colleges. He appreciated the best in me but was aware of my lesser qualities. He knew that I was my own worst enemy. I still remember him saying to me, "I know you can do it, but you don't, and that's the problem."
That low self esteem reared its ugly head in 1992 when I started graduate school across the state, my first real experience away from home. After one semester I was back at home, mortified at the thought of what Mr. Dunne and everyone must think. If Mr. Dunne was disappointed he never let it show. I received a postcard from him that said the following in his almost indecipherable handwriting: "I hear you are back from U.T. I do not hear, however, that you are unable to pick up the phone or write. Love, Michael Dunne."
I wasn't quite ready in 1992 for my world to grow larger. At the time I was bewildered by the anxiety I felt in my new surroundings, but almost twenty years later, I can see the person I was back then and can understand why I experienced difficulties. Of course, Mr. Dunne knew what part of the problem was even back then. I remember sitting in his office the summer before I left for graduate school. I had just returned from my first trip to Disney World which was also my first trip on an airplane. I had gone with a girlfriend of mine. I believe it was the first trip I ever took with someone other than my family. Somehow the subject of James Taylor, my favorite singer at the time, must have entered the conversation. The details of what I said are unclear, but this part I distinctly remember: Mr. Dunne in his pull no punches way saying, "You know there are other places in the world to go to besides Disney World, and there other singers in the world besides James Taylor."
Nowadays I listen to James Taylor every now and then instead of all the time, and there are lots of places I want to visit although I can't wait to take my little boy to Disney World. The other day I had my Ipod on shuffle and James Taylor came on singing, "My Traveling Star." I felt a rush of gratitude and affection for my brilliant and caring professor who believed in me, helped me to grow, and cared enough to say what he really thought.
He was my professor for both sophomore literature courses and a course called Introduction to Popular Culture, which I mostly took just because I wanted to take another one of his classes. He was also my academic adviser. He had his PhD, but I remember he told his sophomore literature students, "My name is Dunne. You can call me Mr. Dunne."
He was known for his dry, sarcastic sense of humor and his straightforwardness, but he was a sentimental, tender hearted man as well. He loved Fred Astaire movies, especially the ones with Fred and Ginger Rogers. I remember his wife saying that on a trip to England he cried when he saw the memorial to T.S. Eliot at Westminster Abbey. He gave simple, straightforward advice on writing that I find useful to this day. He would say, "Read what you've written out loud, and if it sounds wrong, then it probably is wrong."
No one with the exception of my parents was ever more encouraging academically than Mr. Dunne. He nominated me for the English department's highest honor three times. He wrote glowing letters of recommendation for me and helped me get graduate teaching assistantships at two different colleges. He appreciated the best in me but was aware of my lesser qualities. He knew that I was my own worst enemy. I still remember him saying to me, "I know you can do it, but you don't, and that's the problem."
That low self esteem reared its ugly head in 1992 when I started graduate school across the state, my first real experience away from home. After one semester I was back at home, mortified at the thought of what Mr. Dunne and everyone must think. If Mr. Dunne was disappointed he never let it show. I received a postcard from him that said the following in his almost indecipherable handwriting: "I hear you are back from U.T. I do not hear, however, that you are unable to pick up the phone or write. Love, Michael Dunne."
I wasn't quite ready in 1992 for my world to grow larger. At the time I was bewildered by the anxiety I felt in my new surroundings, but almost twenty years later, I can see the person I was back then and can understand why I experienced difficulties. Of course, Mr. Dunne knew what part of the problem was even back then. I remember sitting in his office the summer before I left for graduate school. I had just returned from my first trip to Disney World which was also my first trip on an airplane. I had gone with a girlfriend of mine. I believe it was the first trip I ever took with someone other than my family. Somehow the subject of James Taylor, my favorite singer at the time, must have entered the conversation. The details of what I said are unclear, but this part I distinctly remember: Mr. Dunne in his pull no punches way saying, "You know there are other places in the world to go to besides Disney World, and there other singers in the world besides James Taylor."
Nowadays I listen to James Taylor every now and then instead of all the time, and there are lots of places I want to visit although I can't wait to take my little boy to Disney World. The other day I had my Ipod on shuffle and James Taylor came on singing, "My Traveling Star." I felt a rush of gratitude and affection for my brilliant and caring professor who believed in me, helped me to grow, and cared enough to say what he really thought.
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