A friend always

Marilyn, a friend from our graduating class of 1967, phoned this morning. With the few graduation parties I’ve attended this month, Warren Lincoln High School, our Alma Mater, had come to mind.

There, in Lincoln High’s classrooms, I fell in love with American, French and Russian literature.

On the other 

hand, Marilyn fell for the typewriter, developed into a dynamic and devoted business/typing teacher, and retired after thirty-two years.

Since then, Marilyn, a steadfast sister and friend, drives the route from her house in Plainwell on Michigan’s west side to the east side to visit her several siblings.

On my drive home from a graduation party in Ortonville last Sunday, Marilyn came to mind. I made note to call her. Apparently, I misplaced it.

You see, my cats can’t remind me of where I left my glasses, or what I walked into the kitchen or basement to fetch.

It’s like this. Marilyn is more efficient than I, capable of juggling a multitude of tasks simultaneously. Therefore, she dialed my phone number first. Wait.

I truly doubt she dialed, rather most likely tapped her impeccably nail-polished fingernail to the key programmed “Iris”.

Indeed, Marilyn sat behind a wheel as she spoke, so we kept our conversation short with brief updates.

And no date for our next visit together confirmed on our calendars.

Yet, Marilyn, a tall, soft-spoken, blue-eyed blonde, is trustworthy.

She knows there’s nothing I’d enjoy more than to prepare my guest room for her.

Oh, although I’ve not yet made my second round weeding the backyard gardens, the roses, lilies and English lavender would no less adorn her room in various vases.

And offer sweet dreams. Add a Southern breakfast after she wakes the next morning.

Meanwhile, today, one in a blessed string of gardening-perfect weather, I tidied the last section of garden moat between the lawn and flower garden in front of my house. Pulled every weed in sight.

You see, this past March, a water-proofing project in my basement meant removing every

perennial from the front of my house.

Clumps of hostas, lilies, irises, peonies and other garden companions waited on a tarp, covered with another, for the two weeks the waterproofing project persisted.

Then came weeks of rainfall, waiting for the lawn to dry for mowing.

With joy, I threw the clumps of perennials onto their beds of fresh topsoil.

At last, I completed the restoration of the garden today, rubbed the soil from my gloves and put them in my caddy with other tools.

Scraped soil from the blade of the shovel with a trowel, and rested her in my golf cart’s cargo carrier.

Dear Reader, at last, there’s little evidence of disturbance to my gardens and lawn.

My home, gardens and I are prepared to welcome Marilyn as our house guest whenever the spirit of travel moves upon her. Shall I offer her a gentle nudge?

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com