April 17th: Rain, Gardens and Writing

April 17th

Rain today. It is very cold indeed, not just for the time of the year. On the bright side: I do not have to water my newly planted border, nor the treasured tree and the shrubs planted beneath it, the acer japonica and a fiery red pieris. I spent most of last Saturday in the garden. Fortunately it was a sunny day, and since the garden is facing south it was pleasant being out there. Planting, staking, watering, getting rid of all the plastic containers, pruning, making neat and manageable pieces of all the pruned branches, cleaning paths, it took all day. But my hopes for amazing results are high. I have dreams of colourful borders, clematis full of flowers hiding the wooden fences, attractive undergrowth and a pergola covered again in shady foliage of a new wysteria and the bright pink flowers of Scarlet Dawn, my new rose. But I might have to wait at least another year for that, if not more. Still, gardens are made of dreams, that is the fun of them. And I dreamt all evening lying on the couch, resting my aching joints and muscles, not able to move either of them!

Today at last, I concentrated on writing again. The small writing group I belong to is stimulating. I am still busy adding instalments to my Christmas cycle, a series of short stories, each no more than 2500 words, about the celebration of Christmas during different periods of my life. The Christmases of my childhood, when I was so innocent and full of happiness, thinking Christmas would always be like that, with warmth, the protection of a family, with friends and unexpected guests sharing our meals, with singing in a dark church, safely beside my mother. The adventurous Christmas, which I celebrated with friends far away, sharing in their traditions, enveloped by their friendship and hospitality. The last time I celebrated Christmas with my dying husband, the last Christmas with my old and fragile father. And the lonely Christmases, waking up in a silent house, without friends, husband or family, just sharing a church service with the congregation. And the joy when friends invite me to their home at a time when I least expect it, asking me to share their festive meal with them. That is true friendship which is heart warming. Christmas can be the most wonderful and mysterious feast there is. And it can be the most heart breaking and loneliest time of the year as well, as families tend to form close circles, turning their backs on the outside world, revelling in the safety and security of family life, even if during the rest of the year there is not much contact. Not till the New Year are those circles broken, not until then do they dissolve. Only then people tend to open their eyes again to the world around them. It is a time when the only thing single people wish for is hide or hibernate till those days are over. It can be such a cruel and utterly lonely time instead of a joyful time.

Today my oldest brother in law is having his 75^th birthday. Are we really that old? We have become our grandparents without noticing it. They were indeed old at 75, at least we thought so. Are we? Or does everybody stay young inside, our grandparents included? What did they feel or think? They lived a full life, busy lives, hard work was normal. Were they tired of that, or were they still full of life mentally, and happy that they could now enjoy some leisure after the hard work was over?  I will never know. What I do know is that they were extremely thankful that they were entitled to a pension, thanks to Drees, such an unheard of blessing which their own parents had never had. They had been given far more than they had ever expected or thought had a right to. They have long been dead. I had two grandmothers and one grandfather, and they all died in the same year, in 1974, all far in their eighties. Their lives have not only become history but will also remain a mystery. For even their children are dead by now, and there is no one left who can tell me firsthand about their lives, their thinking, their ideas and possible ideals.