Barbara Crooker

I lived, until recently, on top of a hill of shale that we converted into our very own bit of Eden over the years (45 of them).  When we moved in, the builders had put sod out front, gave us a bag of grass seed for the back, and said “Go to it.”  So every flower, tree, bush, blade of grass was something my husband and I tended and nurtured through drought, hail, massive snows (one memorable storm was over three feet!), etc.  I had an herb garden, a vegetable patch, a small wildflower meadow, ten perennial beds, and he had a little orchard (two each: plum, cherry, pear, peach, apple).  It was very hard to leave, but it was time.  Living there alone was difficult, and I felt guilty over things I no longer could physically maintain.  Now I’m in a retirement community set in a 65-acre arboretum (and find myself newly tapped for the Arboretum Board).  Besides the lovely campus for walking, there are several nearby parks just a short drive away.  Because the news of the world is so awful, I need, more than ever, nature for sustenance.  

“Sunflowers” combines my love for gardening, France, and yoga.  And my love for the birds, chipmunks, etc., who planted them—after the first year, they self-seeded reliably. 

“Euonymous” is oddly relevant; even though my mother’s been gone for sixteen years, it seems that some part of California is always on fire.  And now we are adding “fire season” as the fifth season in our new calendar.  How to be a nature poet as we witness the death of nature; that is the challenge now, isn’t it?