I met Barbara a few months ago while my dog Gracie and I were out walking our favorite route through a neighborhood behind our apartment building.  We had passed her two-story colonial countless times over the last year and a half but on one day in early May, I saw the garage door open and a silver haired woman emerge, approaching us.  “I’ve been admiring your dog for awhile now,” she said with a smile.  I replied, “And I’ve been admiring your house for awhile, too!”  We exchanged names as she gave Gracie’s neck a thorough and much-appreciated scratch and we fell into easy conversation.

Modest and neat, Barbara’s house has that  “Leave it to Beaver” charm although she is far from resembling any June Cleaver archetype.  Though clearly in her 70’s, she sports a becomingly short and youthful hairdstyle and bright coral lipstick that compliments her edgy eyeglasses (far cooler than my own).  On the day that we met she was wearing a pair of black yoga pants and a turquoise hoodie over a DKNY t-shirt. She carried her short frame with a refined energy.

As we stood in the road at the end of her driveway, we talked about our city, the warming temperatures and her daughter who had just visited with the grandkids.  She told me about the neighborhood from the inside out.  Down the street lives Kevin, a nice young man in his 40’s who has been heartbroken ever since his best friend, a large Newfoundland named Barney, died about five years ago.  Kevin came looking for consolation at Barbara’s house the night he buried the dog in his backyard and I am sure he found plenty of it there along with a cup of coffee.

 “And avoid letting Gracie walk on that guy’s grass,” she warned, nodding her head in the direction of the lot sitting catty-corner to hers.  Apparently the man in the tidy yellow house has a short fuse when it comes to “canine deposits” and so I appreciated the warning to point Gracie elsewhere from now on.  Barbara went on to tell me about some lovely families in the little cul-de-sac and gave me the scoop on several charming homes, one of which was a class project for local trade school students back in the 1930’s.  “It’s filled with some of the most unique and creative nooks and crannies that you could ever hope to find, but I’m afraid some of the corners might not be perfectly squared!” I liked Barbara’s sparkling laugh immediatly.

When it came to her own life she willingly offered up a few details as well.  Her husband died a little less than a year ago and the house suddenly feels a bit bigger than necessary, though she doesn’t plan on downsizing anytime soon.  She pointed out a few updates needed–a new roof, siding and maybe a more modern front door–but she has no plans to tackle those projects in the near future, either.

On the day we met, Barbara was heading out to buy flowers for her front yard.  Her husband had always taken the lead in the lawn care department but she decided that she’d still like to have some spring flowers to cheer up the landscape.  She had made the tough decision to limit the flowers to the urns on the front porch this year.   “My husband always planted Geraniums there,” she said as she motioned to the window boxes he had built outside the living room, “but I think it’s too much work for me to handle on my own anymore.”  She sounded more relegated than convinced and I shared a familiar twinge of grief with her as I thought of the traditions that I have reluctantly let go of over the last two years since my mom died.  I couldn’t help wishing that she would throw practicality out the window and change her mind about those Geraniums. Perhaps that way, each time she pulled into her yard, she would be struck with their memories and their beauty, not their absence and all for which it stood. 

Barbara and I finished our conversation a few moments later and we parted warmly, wishing each other luck on our respective errands and sharing the hope that we’d bump into each other again soon.  As Gracie and I resumed our walk, Barbara’s car passed us en route to the local flower nursery; we smiled and waved as she honked her horn.  Our meeting had been an unexpected, albeit welcomed,  interruption to our morning routine and I was thankful for it.

Gracie and I walked passed her house again the day after we met and I noticed that she had, indeed, planted two lovely arrangements in the ornate urns that grace the front porch.   Since then we’ve even managed to bump into each other a few times and I was glad for the chance to compliment her work in the yard and to hear a little bit more about her husband and the life they had built together; stories of her conversion to the Orthodox faith, an inheritance of crocheted doilies and the sure-fire secret to getting stains out of her good table cloth after the family dessimates it during Thanksgiving dinner.  Each time we talk I enjoy our growing connection and our shared affinity for all things 1950.

A few days ago I was driving to church and decided to cut through the neighborhood where Barbara lives.  As I passed her house I looked for her in the yard but found that it was empty.  

But the window boxes were full.

Full of beautiful red geraniums that were waving at me wildly and thriving in their boxes just below the living room window.

“Way to go, Barbara!,” I shouted loudly out my window as I drove passed.  This courageous woman had pushed passed her self-imposed limitations, pushed passed her fear of treading on old memories and fresh grief, and planted something that was at once both familiar and new. 

And something of her courage makes me want to dig my fingers into the soil, dirty fingernails and all, and share the victory of a heart that is not afraid to remember and to grow.