Iris Lee Underwood

A neighbor, the son of a good friend, called several weeks ago. “Iris, my family would like to invite you to join us for lunch at Buddy’s Pizza the Saturday before Easter day.”

Conditions seemed favorable May 30, 2015, for planting trees and shrubs on our property: pleasant weather, an agreeable team of husband and wife, and a Dingo post hole digger with loader waiting for us at Romeo Rental.

The past several years, my husband and I would shake our heads in disbelief as we read or watched another news report of a man claiming to be a woman to compete in a woman’s sport.

After renting apartments and a townhouse for four years, it seemed Mel and I would never become homeowners.

I woke this Sunday morning to rain on my roof and what Richardson Wright named “RAIN MUSIC”, the title of his essay for April 28 in his “The Gardener’s Bed-Book”. I held my worn copy of his 365 essays, smiled again at the man’s powers of observation and accuracy.

I recalled my maternal granny when the first thought of shrinking my vegetable garden came to mind a while ago. I better understood why she mourned the successive years she could no longer plant, hoe, harvest, and preserve her own food.

Come summer, my father would unwind after work on his hands and knees in search of four-leaf clovers in our front lawn. Although his behavior was a bit embarrassing, I later appreciated Dad’s devotion to the symbol of our Irish ancestry.

I look rather odd, so I’m keeping close to home. I have an appointment in four days for the doctor to remove the bandage he taped across the left side of my nose.

Several years ago, my late husband and I visited a local farm in search of a kitten to fill the hole left by our legendary pet, Mo. There, a tortoise shell kitty with hazel eyes claimed Mel’s affection. Mo’s opposite, this little kitten cuddled into Mel’s arms and would not let him go.

Raised on an Appalachian farm, my mother would speak of her family’s beloved milk cow while raising my four sisters and me. She’d stand in our suburban kitchen, pour Twin Pines milk into our glasses and say, “This o’ runny milk can’t compare to what I grew up on.”