On any given day, I walk the trails and gardens on this former Christmas tree farm.
If it rains, I watch for a break. I put on boots made for wet clay; boots, as a girl, I said I’d never wear. I toss up my shoulder length hair in a bun–the exact opposite of the mostly put together image I present at school.
No make up. No use of straighteners or hair products tame my unruly hair full of waves. I wear my green gloves for the gardens instead of the tan ones, which make my fingers appear longer. Those gloves are one of the last vestiges of my time studying abroad in Canterbury, England in 2007. The last part of a girl whom I hardly remember.
Days, like today, when I hear the wind at a high whistle, and forecasters say, “You could see wintry mixes” create the environment for which the kids I teach hope: a day from school. Yes, we’d do E Learning, but there’s a difference being at home.
The growth of my love and attachment to this former Christmas tree farm began before Corrie graduated to heaven on May 27, 2020. During the COVID-19 shut down when E-Learning kicked into high gear, and public school districts stepped up to the plate in feeding all children; no matter what–a short time before public schools became unfairly attacked–I found my relief in walking.
I watched the last of winter turn into spring. My husband, John, began mowing paths for the children and I to walk. Trees knocked asunder by a tornado in February 2020 changed from nature’s apparition in winter to Dogwood flowers and honeysuckle vines entangling each other.
It is something to escape the meaningless transactions of words between people, where often little substance is uttered, and observe nature. I’ve often found my saving grace in the soil or green spaces of the world long before I ever gardened.
In the time I began walking the farm from March until Corrie’s sudden death in May, I found peace, which had been missing from my soul. Just as I found it, our lives faced a different storm.
On Season of Corrie, I’ve written through the immediate grief when my heart and mind were in a different stage. I worked through anger, regret, and forgiveness of myself and others–whether they wished it or not. Reading through old posts and poetry, I see the journey. I discover pieces I’d forgotten during the raw heartbreak. My writing has transitioned from heavy poetry back to a narrative memoir, which was a strength of mine before Corrie’s death.
I submitted almost nothing for publication in 2023 due to my dedication to the gardens, after poems were published in 2021 and 2022. On any given day, I walk the trails and gardens on the farm wishing to write about them in such a way asto portray its beauty, and testament that it will outlast and overcome family divisions, feuds, and heartbreak.
I’m not much of an artist, so I wonder what I can compose for not only a story, but to show the farm’s beauty.
On any given day, I put on my winter boots. Make sure the socks are thick enough. Cover my head, and bundle up because it’s not enough to walk outside in flip flops during winter anymore. I also cast aside that South Carolina girl, where I’d walk in flip flops tripping over the bricks on the horseshoe at the University of South Carolina in February.
When Corrie earned her wings, I felt like a failure because I was a mother meant to keep life here. When I miscarried in 2021, I again felt like a failure. I became sensitive to any perceived failure I had with my remaining child, a now 13-year-old son with autism 1 and ADHD. But 2023 truly made me see myself in a new light.
Sometimes life shoves us into challenges or heartbreak beyond our control. We might become judge and jury over ourselves, others, or God–for those who believe. While my husband and I are beginning to try for new life again following his cancer journey, I’ve let go of “It must happen” to “I’ll be okay if it doesn’t because I have so much to do with these gardens.”
Corrie wanted to garden before her death. We went to Lowes, and neither John nor I knew much about growing flowers. She wanted “pretty flowers” everywhere. We bought her wildflower seeds. She wanted to grow them along with tomato plants. Corrie went out into the garden with her green watering can after it rained to water the plants. I laugh as I write the words that she could’ve caused “root rot” to existing plants
On any given day, I walk through the gardens; no matter how cold, hot, wet, fire or tornado.
Because on any given day, I’ve felt the fire, tornados, wind chills, snow, ice and wet red clay. I’ve see the metaphorical and felt the raw, real pain, but still, just as plants and flora will grow again in our woods, so will I.
The year, 2023, provided the most positive growth since Corrie’s death because I grew in confidence after witnessing what I’d accomplished in the gardens. We went from one garden to three in 2023, along with island gardens. The result is now I have a vision for gardens everywhere on the property, and John has helped me plan them, along with officially naming the farm, “Corrie’s Retreat.”
In 2024, inspired by S&K Greenhouse–my favorite nursery nearby–we’ll start a conifer or evergreen garden.
The evergreen garden will become the first garden across the driveway, and the Anniversary Garden, which we’ll start in May, will go in front of the evergreen garden. The gardens cannot all be attributed to me just as the first, the Butterfly Garden, was the combined vision of my Dad and John. They planned it, and started it with help from the community, friends and family. Arendelle, the largest garden, and the Coral Bell Garden–named after her and for my favorite shade plant, were my visions.
The confidence my husband has invested in me means the world, as well as the positivity of friends and family because I’m beginning to laugh again. The biggest difference in my happier nature is the people who’ve stayed with me throughout the storm, or met me when I was ready to rise.
If people leave you when the woods burn, because I had someone who did, then they become nothing more than ash settling on the ground to you. If someone speaks ill of you, they are nothing more than the wind howling. If someone judges you when your husband might die of cancer, and you still grieve; they’ve revealed their content and character to the world.
I write this because we will often fight to find our own light while people come and go. My Gramps, maternal grandfather, had these swinging doors to his office, which reminded me of the doors to a saloon in old Western movies. As a kid, I’d go in-and-out just to watch them swing when he wasn’t home. This is human nature in relation to others.
So, I’m forever grateful to establish gardens on this land where I’m not as worried about what others think. On any given day, I dig in my drawer for a good pair of socks. I put on my boots, envision a sweet memory of my daughter playing, and cast off past shadows as I head for the gardens.
By R.A. Bridges
Corrie's Season 