COTE: Dad's wisdom grew on Mom

The Rocky

Thursday, March 27, 2008

My mother must have recited the story dozens of times over the years. It went something like this:

"It was a few months after your nana died. I'd worked a long day, I came home and you were screaming, the boys were hiding, the house was a mess, and you know what he said when I burst into tears? He said, 'What you need is a hobby.' "

No doubt, Dad got so much peace and pleasure from his own passion - gardening - that he was trying to help her out.

But she wouldn't have it. When I was young, she told the story in a tone of complete indignation, concluding with a biting, "I had no time for myself as it was, and he thought I could fit in a hobby?"

After he died, she'd tell the tale again, this time with more reverence, a warm laugh punctuating the end, as if to say, "Oh, that Doc Roach. What a guy."

A few years ago, she told me the story one last time, as if it weren't etched into my mind. I was driving her to the doctor, and this time she looked at me with rheumy eyes, shook her head a little and finished the tired tale with, "He was right."

Startled, I glanced at her and she turned away from me, slumped in her passenger seat, and I knew I'd lost her again.

Sudden bursts of insight from those who suffer early stages of Alzheimer's are familiar to their caretakers.

This one, I believe, was her parting gift to me. Because my dad was right.

Perhaps because of my mom, I've always thought hobby such a trivial word. It brought to mind nonessential activities like bird- watching and stamp collecting. People who have hobbies don't have high-pressure jobs, I figured; they have plenty of time to fritter away on gourmet cooking, knitting or, dare I say, gardening.

But I'm a believer now. I have a full plate. I have a busy job. I have a long commute. I have important events I must attend. Working, driving with the stereo blasting and sporting that "little black dress to impress" aren't cutting it.

I need to sink my hands into soil, see if I can find the perfect sunny area for geraniums, figure out which heirloom tomatoes will thrive in the backyard.

While I'm battling bindweed, I can accept that my oldest child, who moved to the East Coast in September, isn't coming back to this state to live anytime soon, if ever.

While I'm cutting back the overgrown bushes in the front yard, I can figure out how I'm going to afford to get the youngest boys through their last years of college.

While I'm pulling weeds, I can think of ways to lure them back home for a weekend once in a while. Baking often does the job. They can sniff out peanut butter cookies and blueberry muffins from 10 miles away.

I need to plant the pale pink roses my mother loved and let a few tears fall into the rich soil. She died in June, and I miss her, even if she wasn't really there in the last two years of her life.

These days, Mom shows up in my dreams a lot. Now, as is the way with every mother, sometimes she's making me feel guilty about not visiting her enough in the nursing home in her last few months. But more often, she's her old spunky, funny, smart self. She's giving me wise advice.

She's telling me not to sweat the little stuff. She's coming up with time-consuming gourmet dishes for me to whip up on the weekends.

A few weeks ago, on a warm morning in March, I awoke from a dream where she was in a garden, pruning roses. She offered a beatific smile, and while she didn't say a word, I got the message.

I need a hobby. I'm heading outside with the potting soil.

If gardening is your hobby, and you have a story to tell or a tip to share, please contact me. Dig will appear every Friday through June 27.