Old Gardens

we've worked hard for years savin' our money so we can buy us a place of our own.' He glanced around. "This farm has possibilities. It needs to be cleaned up; it's growed up a sight." Sarah looked over the fields, noticing the briars, bushes and shrubs that were seemingly taking over. "Yes, it needs some work." "If this place was mine, I'd set me out some Christmas trees on that hill over there, and by the time my Katy is ready to go to college, they'd be ready to sell. There was a faraway look in his blue eyes as he stared over the farm. She'd seen that look before. Why, it was in her father's eyes. He'd been about this man's age when he bought the farm. In fact this man reminded her of her father. He had determination, drive, but most of all, a love for the land. "Yeah, I want to send my young 'uns to college if they want to go. I never was no scholar myself, but they make good grades." He grinned. "Take after their mama." Her own father had had little education , but he'd seen to it that his own children had graduated from college. "How many children do you have?" "Two. A girl and a boy. "Well, this old farm is used to children . My brother and I grew up here. This is a fine place to raise a family." "Yep, I believe it would be too. This farm needs some young 'uns a-runnin' through the fields, some cattle a-grazin', some crops a-blowin' in the breeze." He studied her for a few moments. "Now, I know you ain't a-hankerin' to sell but if you sell it to me, I promise if I ever decide to sell even a fraction of this farm, I'll give you the first offer." His blue eyes met hers. "Now you may think Im just sayin' mat, but Im a man of my word if I ain't nothing else." Sarah smiled at him softly. "Yes, Mr. Russell, I believe you are. Selling die home place wasn't easy; in fact, it was die hardest thing Sarah had ever had to do. But selling it to a couple who reminded Sarah so much of her own motíier and father made it easier. And where her dreams had died, anomer man's dreams had begun. Old Gardens My grandmother's garden was a jumbling pinwheel: fading daffodils, tulips risen red, hydrangeas she called snowball bushes-a stumbling growth overtaking the clothesline-not one bed of pansies, but sturdy stuff year on year then. Today I tried again to uproot the peonies. I sneaked behind them for fear their persistent white heads would not stand mute. Those peonies had no right to confront me: Grandmother's blooms stand in another city; these are strangers' work, as is the cupid-strewn, rosy wallpaper that I stripped with no pity. But a hapless headsman, I let the peonies stay for the perfume of a remembered day. -Géraldine Marshall Gutfreund 29 ...