The Gift That Keeps Unfolding
Hello fellow lovers of all things green,
Thank you to everyone who reached out after last week’s post, The Gift of Noticing: A Dove Tree That Didn’t Bloom, about Marty Carson’s celebration of life. Several people shared memories of Marty and her gardens. Her influence continues to ripple outward through the lives she touched and the gardens she nurtured. Forever in my heart, I find myself thinking about what we carry forward in the Garden of Life.
The tiny markings revealed the spoon’s history: Legrys & Son, patented in 1884.
You may recall that Marty’s son Bob gave me a silver spoon engraved with my name. Since then, the story has deepened.
After turning the spoon over and researching the markings on the back, I learned it is a Victorian berry spoon patented in 1884. Think about that for a moment. The Brooklyn Bridge had only recently opened. Thomas Edison was still developing electric lighting. Marty’s parents had not yet been born.
It’s intriguing to imagine how many hands have held that berry spoon. Somewhere along the way, it belonged to another Mary. And now it has found its way to me.
After hearing the podcast, Bob wrote:
“I’m glad that you will carry it on as you live with your gardens and your people.”
Those words have stayed with me.
Because gardens are never just about plants. They are about relationships. About belonging. They are about what we carry forward.
The family cherry table now sits in a room waiting to discover what it wants to become next.
Stories Hidden in Ordinary Things
My sister recently brought me another object carrying a story as she prepares to move across the country —a cherry table.
It had belonged to our family for years, and as the story goes, one of the leaves had been shortened because it didn’t fit the space where it was used.
My sister suspects that either great-grandmom Mary or grandmom Bessie wanted the leaf cut down. Mary’s twin brother was a carpenter, so I suspect he had to do the (painful) cutting. For now, it sits in the room vacated by my former life partner. I’m unsure what that room wants to become, perhaps a writing spot, perhaps a guest room, perhaps both. It’s waiting there for its next chapter.
Along with the table came a collection of old photographs of family gatherings—children who are now grown.
And among those treasures was a copy of a letter my father sent me when I was attending the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City, paying my own way. It was after I had returned from a scholarship in England.
Transported Back in Time
I knew the original letter existed somewhere in my journals. What I didn’t know was that my father had given my mother a copy.
Reading the letter again transported me back in time. My father was worried about me moving to New York at age 18. He wasn’t a man who talked openly. In many ways, his strategy was to keep his head down. Or ignore what made him uncomfortable.
A treasured letter from my father, rediscovered years later through a copy he mailed to my mother.
The letter itself wasn’t emotional. Other than the first paragraph, where Dad wrote how proud he was of my accomplishments. That paragraph alone made the letter a treasure. Much of it described his interim Florida apartment and the ham radio equipment he had set up while working there before he and Mom moved into their new house. Yet between the lines was a connection. A father reaching toward a daughter in the best way he knew how.
The Xerox copy became a treasure. Not because of the paper. Because of the story. It made me think about all the things we leave behind. Furniture. Photographs. Letters. Silver spoons.
Without context, they are objects. With context, they become vessels carrying pieces of our lives. The stories are what matter.
In many ways, that’s how The Lesson of the Leaf began years ago—with a story my brother Bill shared before he died, a story that continues to shape how I see gardens, nature, and belonging.
A Promise Spoken Aloud
Another story of carrying things forward came from my friend Cristina, who recently became a United States citizen.
My dear friend Cristina recently became a United States citizen after decades of building a life, family, career, and community in this country.
I’ve known Cristina for nearly three decades. We studied landscape design together and have remained friends ever since. She came to this country from Italy, raised a family, built a career, paid taxes, contributed to her community, and recently completed the process of becoming a citizen.
The oath contains promises that many of us born here have never spoken aloud. As I listened to Cristina describe the ceremony, I found myself reflecting on what citizenship really means. Not politics. It’s a commitment. A responsibility. A sense of belonging. Of giving back. Of having gratitude for the beauty of our world and freedoms.
How often do we stop and think about the promises that shape our lives? Wedding vows. Commitments to family. Promises we make to ourselves. And the promises we make to care for our gardens, our communities, and the natural world.
These are all the ways we carry things forward.
Looking Ahead One Hundred Years
This year, our nation celebrated its 250th anniversary. Imagine where our country—and our world—will be in another hundred years. Hopefully in a more peaceful place.
What stories will future generations inherit?
What objects will survive?
What gardens? What wisdom?
Will someone hold an old photograph and wonder who we were? Perhaps they won’t know our names. But maybe they will inherit something more important.
Kindness.
A story.
A tree preserved. A garden planted.
Traditions continued.
Lessons from the Vegetable Garden
Meanwhile, here in the present moment, my vegetable garden reminds me that life keeps moving. My early start became a late start. The deer discovered my bean sprouts before I managed to install the netting. The cucumbers from a two-year-old seed packet are thriving. The zucchini is growing happily. Volunteer tomato plants have appeared, and I have no idea what variety they are. I’ve decided to let them stay.
Sometimes the best things in a garden are the ones we didn’t plan.
And the same is true in the garden of life.
Jolee Snow and a Bird’s Nest
An earlier photograph of a blue jay nest. Seeing a bird building a nest again reminds me how nature carries life forward from one generation to the next.
One morning, while in my writing spot, I noticed a Blue Jay flying in and out of the viburnum outside my library window. Perhaps she was building a nest there again this year. I hope so, and maybe some of Jolee’s fur would line the nest—a contribution to the next generation. There is certainly enough of it available. I often brush her outside. The snow of fur never ends; Jolee snows fur year-round.
And maybe that’s what our lives mean. We are all carrying something forward.
A spoon passes from one hand to another.
A garden passes from one gardener to another.
A story passes from one generation to the next.
And perhaps that is the greatest gift of all: not what we leave behind, but what continues to grow because we were here.
May we pay attention long enough to understand what we are carrying. Because one day, someone else may carry it too.
And as Bob so beautifully wrote, may we continue living with our gardens and our people.
Garden Dilemmas? AskMaryStone@gmail.com or tune in on your favorite Podcast App.
Prefer to Listen?
This story is also a feature in this week’s episode of Garden Dilemmas, Delights & Discoveries, with additional reflections from the screen porch:
🌿 Related Reflections from the Garden of Life
Growing Belonging in the Garden of Life
Reflections in the Garden of Life
The Gift of Noticing: A Dove Tree That Didn’t Bloom (last week’s post)
(Companion Podcast Episode Links are at the bottom of each post)
