Hello, fellow lovers of all things green,
Last week I shared a walk along the Paulinskill Valley Trail with Jolee to soothe a hurting heart. It brought wildflowers, memories, and a river finding its way again. And with gratitude, I realized I am, too.
Jolee remembered the little paths leading toward the Paulins Kill, even though we hadn’t walked this direction together in a long while.
It’s a swerving path of healing, sometimes leading sideways or even backpedaling. I’ve heard it said that the depth of our grief reflects the depth of our love. Those who have experienced loss know what I mean—the gorilla of grief.
And sharing last week’s story sent me down another memory trail. I thought about my first handful of years living in Blairstown and discovering the Paulinskill Valley Trail.
Sara and the Two-Ball Game
I remember walking there with Sara, my red-furred golden retriever, after her two CCL surgeries a few years apart. That’s the cranial cruciate ligament, for those of you who don’t know. The veterinarian ordered flat-surface leash walks only.
Well, Sara was not normally a leash-walking kind of girl. She was a ball-aholic, in fact, masterful at grabbing tennis balls six feet in the air—perhaps explaining why she tore one rear CCL, then the other.
Finally! On her sixth birthday, Sara allowed me the portrait I had tried so long to capture.
Sara could anticipate where a tennis ball would land and run out to meet it in the infield as masterfully as a big-league player. And I helped matters along with one of those ball throwers with a cup on the end that could send a tennis ball sailing.
After BIG ball, she became a small-ball player: short tosses, no more ball thrower, no more soaring catches. She adapted to what her body could do rather than lamenting what it couldn’t—a Garden of Life lesson.
It’s fun to think about Sara today. I cherish a portrait I took of her long ago. She’s sitting proudly with two tennis balls in her mouth.
You see, Sara had a littermate, Sadie, and the two of them played what became the two-ball game. On land or in water, there always had to be two balls or two sticks.
The Loss of Sadie
I lost Sadie very young. She went chasing after a deer, snuck under the chain-link fence where I once lived, and went missing. She’d done that before and come back readily, but that time the Rockaway River was frozen solid. She got over the river, and it broke up shortly after.
Sara and her littermate, Sadie—the original two-ball team.
It was a very sad day, and I searched for her along with Sara out in the woods for many weeks until, finally, Sara put on the brakes as if to say, “Mom, she’s gone.” Her body was found after the snowmelt in spring. One of the things my veterinarian said was that she died doing what she loved to do, and that did give me comfort.
Life has a journey, doesn’t it, and an unfolding that’s got a life of its own.
After Sadie died, Sara kept the game going—still two balls, still two sticks. I tried many times to photograph her holding those two tennis balls in her mouth. Camera in hand, I’d approach her, hoping that she would finally allow me the portrait. But she would run toward me and promptly drop the balls at my feet.
Then, finally, on her sixth birthday, she posed for the shot. And I still have it. It sits on my kitchen counter, and it brings a smile when I walk by.
Isn’t it remarkable how one trail can hold so many chapters in our lives?
A Magnificent Garden I Didn’t Plant
Orange jewelweed (Impatiens capensis) mingles along the pond’s damp edges.
The morning after the recent walk with Jolee along the Paulins Kill, I sat on the screened porch overlooking the pond at that other magnificent garden I didn’t plant. A mirror, in a way, of the one I saw along the Paulinskill Valley Trail. Different plants, though.
Orange jewelweed (Impatiens capensis) mingles along the damp edges. I look forward to seeing this North American native annual along streams, creeks, and roadside trenches. Its succulent, almost translucent stems reach three to five feet tall, topped with dangling orange flowers that remind me of foxgloves.
Jewelweed has a history of traditional use for soothing poison ivy irritation. Another common name, Touch-me-not, comes from its unique seed-dispersing strategy. When ripe, the slender pods burst at the slightest touch. They curl back and fling seeds.
Who would have thought plants could be so fun?
White snakeroot (Ageratina altissima) offers late-season nectar to pollinators—but this beauty has a shady side.
Nearby, masses of white snakeroot (Ageratina altissima) brighten the woodland’s edge. This New Jersey native perennial favors woodland conditions, and its clusters of fuzzy white flowers provide late-season nectar for butterflies, bees, and other pollinators.
But this beauty has a shady side.
White snakeroot is toxic to livestock, and historically, people became ill from drinking milk from cows that had eaten it. The dreaded “milk sickness” causes weakness, nausea, abdominal pain, and vomiting. But it does attract pollinators.
A magnificent garden I didn’t plant. Mother Nature is quite the landscape designer.
Then sweeps of hay-scented fern (Dennstaedtia punctilobula) weave among the flowers. Its common name comes from the fragrance of freshly mown hay released when its foliage is crushed. It spreads enthusiastically by underground rhizomes and can form broad colonies—a soft, flowing groundcover when Mother Nature has plenty of room.
As fall advances, its green fronds turn soft yellow, adding another layer to nature’s autumn palette.
Above them stands the magnificent oak that has presided over this view far longer than I have. Soon acorns will plop into the pond, announcing fall’s arrival. Nearby, a maple is already shedding tired leaves.
Different Dogs, Different Walks
That’s what struck me about this garden I didn’t plant. Nature doesn’t stand still. One season gives way to another. Plants emerge, spread, fade, and return.
Our lives don’t stand still either. We make plans. Paths close. Bodies need mending. Hearts do, too. But growth continues.
Sara’s leash walks eventually ended, and she ran again, although BIG ball was behind her. Then, less than a year after Sara crossed Rainbow Bridge, Miss Ellie Mae stumbled into my life—my Unexpected Furry Messenger, a rescue dog who truly rescued me.
Miss Ellie Mae, my Unexpected Furry Messenger, accompanied me through another chapter of transition.
Faithful readers of The Press may remember that Miss Ellie Mae was the mascot of our weekly column chats that began in 2012. She arrived unexpectedly during another tough time of transition in my life, and together, we shared a journey of recovery and finding unconditional love.
Jolee’s spirit came riddled with fear.
And then came Jolee, adopted from Father John’s five months after Ellie’s goodbye. You may recall how she came from Biloxi, Mississippi, saved from a kill shelter by loving rescuers who transported her and her littermates north. No wonder Jolee’s spirit came riddled with fear.
When she arrived, I could easily lift her 34 pounds to carry her for a while on our morning walks when she put on the brakes—which was every few feet. Then I’d put her back on the road. She’d walk a bit more before I’d lift her for several feet and set her back on the ground.
She’d walk farther each time, gaining confidence and courage, and our walks became three to four miles. For the longest time, she would only walk one way on our road walks. There was the acceptable direction, and there was apparently the absolutely-not direction.
Jolee finds comfort in routine. Don’t we all? But recently something changed.
Now We Can Go the Other Way
Jolee learned a few feet at a time that a frightening road could become familiar.
I hadn’t really thought about its significance until I began putting these two stories together. Last week, our familiar route along the Paulinskill Valley Trail was closed, so Jolee and I turned around and went the other way. She wouldn’t have done that once. Now she can.
Different dogs. Different walks. Different chapters of a life.
Sara learned to play differently when her body could no longer do what it once had. Ellie arrived unexpectedly and accompanied me through another transition. Jolee learned, a few feet at a time, that a frightening road could become familiar—and eventually that there is more than one way to go.
And outside the screened porch, Mother Nature carries on with her own transitions.
Jewelweed flings its seeds. White snakeroot feeds late-season pollinators. Hay-scented fern begins turning yellow. The maple lets go of tired leaves. Soon the oak will send acorns plopping into the pond.
Nothing stays exactly as it was.
And still, the Garden of Life grows.
Garden Dilemmas? AskMaryStone@gmail.com or tune in on your favorite Podcast App.
Prefer to Listen?
This story is also featured in Episode 269 of Garden Dilemmas, Delights & Discoveries, where I share more reflections from this two-part journey and the beloved dogs who have walked the paths with me.
You can also read or tune in to the first story in this two-part journey:
🌿 Finding Our Way Again Along the Paulins Kill – Blog Post
🎙️ Ep 268: Finding Our Way Again Along the Paulins Kill
Related Stories & Podcasts:
🐾 Miss Ellie Mae — My Unexpected Furry Messenger– Blog Post
Ellie’s story is also featured in Episode 20, along with Father John’s Memorial Garden.
🐾 Jolee — Merry Season of Love Over Fear – Blog Post
Jolee’s early journey from fear toward trust is featured in Episode 37.
