There’s something very odd about pulling up stakes and moving away. Mom had never experienced this until she and Dad married.

In 1973, we moved from Fairfield, Connecticut, to Carmel, Indiana. We’d only lived in Fairfield for three years and had spent many hours tending to gardens and other landscaping, as this was a brand-new house and yard.

It was so nice of our Connecticut neighbor to stay in touch, especially with the news that those stubborn blueberry plants had burst into color that fall.

Mom was so touched, she wrote a poem:

Roots

Are we all in there, sleeping, fire
shrinking on the grate, the cat still
sitting in the window, night-eyed
for the moon, bookmarks and Beethoven
and our own herbs drying in the den.

Until our neighbor picked and pressed
and sent them in a letter I never knew
our blueberry leaves would turn my
favorite shade of red in autumn; we saw
them only green that spring and summer.

~ Joan Vayo ~ November 12, 1973

Now John and Aubrie have blueberry bushes on their property. Our daughter-in-law confessed to Farmer Gary that she resorted to threatening the non-productive plants after a few seasons. Bless her, it worked!

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“Roots” ©1973 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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