Rain, rain, go away...

Hanging baskets await Spring at Horton's Nursery and Garden Center in Winchester, VA

April showers bring May flowers. But this year the rains of April have extended into May and the flowers are hanging out in the greenhouse, comparing foliage and gossiping about the garden gnomes in the corner.

The spring of our discontent has taken its toll. Mr. Pettit and I still haven't visited Scoops and Swirls to get our favorite treat, the Wafflicious. (Yes, it is as good as it sounds.) In a fit of optimism we bought some tomato plants about a month ago, thinking we'd shelter them in the garage for a couple of weeks before making them at home in our garden. But the gangly things are still in their pots, tipping over as they wait for a permanent home. I know I should plant them in bigger containers, but that feels like an admission of defeat.

Even as I complain about high temperatures in the 50's and daily drizzle I know that in a couple of months I'll dream of relief from heat and humidity. It occurred to me today that my weather whining is yet another example of my struggle to live in the moment. Today I yearn for summer, in summer I'll yearn for fall and in fall I'll yearn for...nevermind. In fall I'll be content, since it's my favorite season. (However, as October ends I'll probably start dreaming of the first snow of winter.)

I can't imagine what God thinks of my fickle nature, although I know He's not surprised by it; after all, He made me. I hope that eventually I'll appreciate each day for its special graces.

Even if that means eating a Wafflicious under an umbrella.

For Mama

Dear Mama,

Happy Mother's Day. It's been almost 20 years since I last saw you and I'm sorry we couldn't talk. We still had so much to say.

I mailed you a letter but you went into the hospital so suddenly I don't know if you got the chance to read it. I don't remember exactly what I wrote but the gist of it was that I appreciated all you and Daddy had done for me and that I loved you.

That's one thing we got right. We never ended a phone call or parted company without saying "I love you." I thank God I don't have to live with that particular regret.

I wasn't a kid when you left me. I'd been married 18 years and our sons were 9 and 13. But I still had some growing up to do; like a child I was so absorbed by my little galaxy that I didn't pay enough attention to yours. The literal distance between us---I in Colorado and you in South Carolina---didn't help matters. When we talked on the phone you pretended you were fine and I pretended to believe you.

We didn't always agree on things, probably because we were so much alike, both strong-willed Southern women who want what they want when they want it. You could wield guilt like a scalpel and you expressed your displeasure with icy silence. As for me, I was so certain I was on the right side of our disagreements that I dismissed whatever you did say. (And I sense I may have inherited your guilt superpower.)

If we could talk one more time I'd ask you to tell me your story, all of it: Your childhood summers on the Outer Banks, the first time you met Daddy, your dreams, your disappointments.

I'd also share what I've learned in the past 20 years. Now I understand how hard it must have been for you to watch me and my young Air Force lieutenant move from South Carolina to Texas. I imagine you knew---you always seemed to know things--- that we'd never live near you again.

Almost two years ago, when your sweet great-granddaughter was born, I understood---truly understood, right down to my center---how hard it must have been for you to see your grandsons so infrequently. But what an impression you made on them in the time you had. They still talk about your trips with them to Wilson's; the $10 you'd give each of them to buy baseball cards might as well have been $10,000.

I'd like to talk about how fast life seems to fly, how the little boys who devoured junk food at your kitchen table grew up in a matter of days. I wish I could have shared their milestones with you, because you would have been just as proud as I was.

You weren't a perfect mother. I'm not either. But you loved your family fiercely and you taught me to do the same.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama. Thank you for everything.

Love,
Rita