Looking out my Backdoor: We are as sick as our secrets

When I had cataract surgery a few years ago, when the pads were removed from my eyes, I felt like I had been given a new set of eyeballs. Suddenly the world appeared more clearly, more colorful than ever before in my clouded memory.

Other gifts of new sight have happened more gradually, like this one I want to share with you.

You all know I have quite an extensive array of plants in my garden. To some of the flowers, bushes and trees I’ve given names. I have a couple plants I call “George” simply because I like the name and probably associate it with my Uncle George, who had a terrific dry sense of humor and was a farming genius.

In my main bucket garden area, I have Homer, my taller-than-me, Day of the Dead garden-guard statue, named after an old friend, writer and wit. In the back corner beneath the jacaranda, I have The Lady. That’s all I’ve ever called her, The Lady, a beautiful sylph-like being with a bird on her shoulder.

My mango tree I call La Señora, after Leo’s mother, who has helped me a lot though she died before I moved here. La Señora radiates energy.

Another special named plant is Kristen’s azalea. I planted a white azalea in memory of my son’s girlfriend who died a year ago. On New Year’s Eve, the first flower opened and today she looks like a princess in a white gown, whose scent permeates the patio area with sweetness.

And in what used to be my stump garden, until the stump rotted apart and had to be removed, I have Francis. This story is about Francis. Not so much maybe about him but about me from back when I was too young and too naïve to know better.

The real Francis, back when we all were young and foolish, was a handsome dude. He had a great nickname which I won’t mention. He damaged me. Then I did a horrible thing. I disappeared him. I attempted to erase every aspect of him from my mind and memory. It never hurt him. But it hurt me, festering away in the attic of my mind all those years.

Twenty-some years later, I was talking and laughing with a group of friends when in walked Francis. I did not recognize this shell of a man, but knew him when he said his name. I got quiet, became wallpaper. I don’t know if he recognized me or not. I never saw him again.

But that afternoon, what I knew was that he was a very sick man, torn apart by the ravages of alcohol. I was able to have enough compassion to know he had been sick even back when he was young. This was “head” knowledge. I never breathed one word to anybody of the past. That was my hidden secret. And like I said, I never saw Francis again.

Then one morning after the stump had been gouged out of my stump garden and we’d begun to rearrange the rockery and plants, Leo showed up clutching the ugliest mal-formed elephant foot plant I’d ever seen. It looked like a last-gasper, with a wizened foot and crooked trunk. Somebody had chopped off the pony-tail-like fronds from the top.

Leo said, “This was dying but I think it will come back to life in your stump garden.”

Without conscious thought, I said, “That is Francis.” And so the stump garden became the Francis garden, and eventually, as Francis the elephant foot plant gained in strength and even in beauty, became the St. Francis garden.

In the beginning, I was uncomfortable with Francis, but gradually, with time and with the need to take care of him, to nurture him, as Francis the Elephant Foot took root in my stump garden, my memories of the original Francis seeped out of my head and took root in my heart, fed with a new compassion and understanding. As this new Francis healed, so healed my memories.

You must please know this was nothing special in me. I was content to keep that ugliness buried inside forever. It took a poor spindly plant to root it out into the sunshine.

Today, Francis stands tall. His twisted trunk has straightened and his pony-tail topknot has grown out gracefully. I hope that somehow, somewhere, that young, handsome, also damaged, dude of my past lives and prospers.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.