Gardener Gone Wild

My mother never went home to Puerto Rico after I was born. Instead, she fulfilled her primal urge for home by raising a jungle in the middle of the suburbs. 

To give directions to my house in high school, I just said I lived in the jungle on Cornishcrest Road — no one needed an address.

It was disconcerting. I just wanted to blend in. To conform. 

When the dashing young man, now my husband "rescued me from the jungle" —  he presented me with a garden on which to plant the earth with my signature.

Some time in the thirty-five years since my adventure with Gerry began, I founce peace with my mother's quest in her garden. As she had her vision of paradise, I have mine.

The first bloom welcomes visitor's at the curb. It is filled with roses. Birds and bunnies help themselves to food and water. Our forever-puppies give chase. And now, with ostrich egg-sized blooms of Matalija Poppy proving that a civilized garden can improve the wild, I am happy with the synergy between wild and civilized.

Future generations of Diamond Bar may not know my name or why these beauties popped up in the little canyon behind my home. But because my mother taught me with her garden that it is okay to be different, in May they will be reminded of the happiness that comes when flowers smile up from the land.