Grandmother Abigail Baker Lovejoy, who started it all…
My first memories of home are of a tiny redwood cottage tucked into a vale in my Grandmother Lovejoy’s garden. The vine-covered house was surrounded on all sides by old apricot and peach trees, and the lawn was carpeted with carnations. Raspberries and boysenberries grew along a wall, providing a secret nesting place for the night-singing mockingbirds.
My favorite haven in the garden was my playhouse—a pair of ancient guava trees that formed a huge, light-pierced tent with branches that swept the ground.
The pathway that led from Grandmother’s house to mine was flanked with hollyhocks as tall as trees. Giant bumblebees nestled into the pink recesses of the blooms, while darting hummingbirds danced from petal to petal looking for unoccupied flowers.
The main spirit of our garden was a gigantic, mottled old sycamore tree with limbs so strong and comforting I would often curl up on the lower one to read or to watch for figures in the clouds. Grandmother’s swing sat under the sycamore, and on sunny afternoons—with a gentle wind stirring the papery leaves—we would sip cream teas and eat sugar and cinnamon sandwiches, and Grandmother would teach me about the flowers, trees, and animals of her garden.
On the day my Grandmother Lovejoy died, I ran to the shelter of my guava tree playhouse and closed myself inside for hours. I could hear the mockingbird’s young in the wall of berries, the wind rustling through our sycamore leaves, and the humming of the bumblebees working in the hollyhocks. I couldn’t understand how the person who had given me this life could have gone, leaving these smaller things behind, unchanged.
What I have learned through the ensuing decades is that my Grandmother Lovejoy lives on. Her stories and teachings have enriched my life and the life of my son Noah for years. Now I pass this treasure on to you, and hope that you in turn will share the joys with the children in your life. Gentle lessons are waiting to be taught—and you, my friend, are the one to teach them.
Sharon Lovejoy
Cambria-Pines-by-The-Sea
In Grandmother’s garden the hollyhocks
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Row upon row lifted wreathed stalks
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With bloom of purple, of pearly white,
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Of close-frilled yellow, of crimson bright.
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In Grandmother’s garden the roses red
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Grew in a long, straight garden bed,
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By yellow roses with small, close leaves;
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And yuccas—we called them Adams and Eves!
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Threaded with fringes of fairy weaves;
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By marigolds in velvet browns,
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And heart’s-ease in their splendid gowns;
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Primrose, waiting the twilight hours.
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Touch-me-nots, and gilliflowers.
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Was it October, or June, or May
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Grandmother’s garden was always gay.
Sara Andrew Shafer