Iris Lee Underwood

Within the passing of a November day, my doctor diagnosed an advanced case of endometriosis, and scheduled surgery the week before Christmas 1982. The following day, as mothers and grandmothers are prone to do, Mom called and said, “I’m coming to help you and Mel with the girls.”

Recently, while lunching with Erna at her table, she mentioned her son suggested she try the grief support group hosted by a local church. “The meetings are very helpful,” she said. “And there’s room for a few more in the group if you think you might be interested. The material is Bible-based.”

“We’ll be on the road tomorrow morning,” my sister Patty said when I called with the heartbreaking news of my husband’s passing.

The signs and sounds of the mating season surround the house. The raucous robins claim the fen beside my little camper, Happy, for their annual convention to proclaim their mate and nesting place. This the robins convened long before my husband and I stepped foot on this patch of land.

Moonlight lit the snowy landscape as I walked downhill to the henhouse. Compelled by its glow, I paused, leaned on my ski pole, and lifted my face to another blooming full moon.

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.