True Magic

June 11, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I mentioned yesterday that it had suddenly struck me with amazement — again — that I was living in such a beautiful place.

And the same feeling struck me again today.

It makes sense why I feel so grateful and so blessed; I live in a truly magical place. I was out working in the yard today — overdoing it as usual — and for a change, I stopped to rest on my pretty bench because I was too tired to drag myself to a chair under the gazebo.

I sat there musing about my magic place. A few seeds, a few plants, some water, and suddenly, there it is — a magnificent yard, with views on every side. (Not suddenly, not really, but as the saying goes, nothing happens then everything happens.)

I’m not being ingenuous. When I moved here, there wasn’t much but weeds, dirt, and a rotting garage, so obviously I did a lot of work, but still, isn’t it magic? I didn’t really have anything to do with the plants sprouting from seed and then growing and having babies, and all of them showing off for me. I gave them the space and opportunity to do what they needed to do, but the rest was them. All the intelligence they needed to know what to do was in them, packed in a tiny kernel of information. I could only marvel at their cleverness at being able to do all the real work.

It’s a good thing they know how to come to life because I don’t. Putting the seeds and started plants in soil and watering what doesn’t die is about all I know how to do.

And apparently, it’s enough. Because sitting there, I saw a whole lot of beauty.

To the right of the garage is the gazebo, of course, and the raised garden, filled with petunias and a whole lot of moss rose that planted itself. There are also dozens of marigolds that decided they wanted to join the petunias and moss rose, but I am thinning those and transplanting them elsewhere.

In front of the bench where I am sitting and to the left of the garage is . . . well, all I can call it is a mini park. Toward the back are the four food plants I just put into the ground as well as a patch of wildflower seeds. Behind the bushes, the lily forest is growing so very tall. One lily towers over me! With any luck, I’ll be seeing flowers in a couple of weeks.

And peeking from behind the bushes, along the fence, are the hollyhocks that planted themselves.

True magic.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

 

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My June 10 History

June 10, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I keep getting notices here on this blog about articles I posted on that same day during the previous ten years. I was going to opt out of the notifications, but somehow I never have. (Though I’m sure if those notices included my grief years, I would have opted out immediately.) It’s interesting to see where I was and what I was thinking previously on this date, and interesting, too, to see how much I’ve forgotten. Apparently, once I’ve posted something, it was out of my mind, which, come to think of it, was the point. I never purposely went back and read what I wrote, which considering how long I’ve been doing this blog, could take months, but now I peek at what shows up in my notifications.

Six years ago on June 10, I lamented my lack of a garden. What I mostly had back then was dirt, dead weeds, some newly planted lilac bushes, and a few flowering plants that were here before me. Like the trumpet vine. In previous places I lived, I tried to grow trumpet vines, hoping for a bit of color, but they never managed to thrive. But here, they do. In fact, I have a hard time keeping them in check — I find starter plants all over the place. I dig them up and plant them where they would better serve me, and though slow to grow, most are still alive.

The old vines are blooming cheerily right now, which adds even more color to the garden I never thought I’d have. I remember back then telling a neighbor that in ten years I should have a beautiful yard, and I was partly right. I do have a beautiful yard, but it only took six years to get to this point.

It’s funny, too, that in that six-year-old post I mentioned how bad the winds were, and oh, we’ve been having terrible winds! I wonder what it is about this day and winds? Well, it is southeastern Colorado, which means we almost always have winds.

In 2022, on this day, I wrote about waking up every morning amazed that I am living in such a house on a beautiful mini estate. How very strange it is that I stood outside my house just today, thinking that very same thing — how amazed I am (and so very grateful) to be living here. Perhaps, like the winds, that isn’t a coincidence since I often feel gratitude for this turn my life took, but today it truly did strike me anew how very blessed I am.

Last year, on this day, I wrote about feeling detached from the garden that five years previously I’d wished for. I just didn’t care. (I didn’t need that blog to remind me. I remember how I felt) Oh, I did the necessary work last year, but beyond that, I didn’t take many photos, seldom blogged, and just felt as if it weren’t worth the effort because the intense sun just burned everything.

Whatever struggles I had last year — both with my attitude and the garden itself — didn’t destroy anything permanently. The garden is going well this year, I’m actually enjoying doing the work, and yes, I am still appreciating my cheery trumpet vines.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

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Being Snippy

June 9, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I took a day off to recuperate from working too long in my yard two days running, but I went to town with a friend and ended up buying more plants, mostly plants for my “farm” garden rather than my flower garden, though I did buy one dianthus to fill in a blank space in one garden.

So, of course I spent yesterday planting all those new starts, not just the dianthus, but one pumpkin, one tomato, one watermelon, one cantaloupe. Sounds silly written out like that, but I don’t eat much of any of those things so one plant each should do it. Besides, the main reason to get those particular plants is that they take up a lot of room, and I have a back section of my yard that screams for green. I want to see if those vines with their pretty flowers will fill the area as I hope. And who knows, I might get an edible treat or two out of the deal.

There are several plants, mostly the cottage pinks, that are overgrown, and I’ve just let them go. I have a really hard time gathering the ruthlessness necessary to do such hatchet jobs, so I wait until I have a lot of aggression I want to bleed out. Well, yesterday I was feeling snippy in the meaning of short-tempered and irritable, so I got out my pruning shears and, closing my ears to their silent screams, snipped away as much of those poor plants as I could. I was going to wait until they went to seed, but apparently yesterday was the day I needed to get rid of some aggression.

I’m not sure why I was so disgruntled — well, I certainly spend too much time paying attention to what’s going on in the world as if it were a thriller I was reading in real time, and that makes me worry too much about things I have no control over, and for sure I’ve been stiff and sore after working so much.

Apparently, my revenge on my poor body for giving me grief is to give it even more grief because yesterday, once again, I overdid it. With any luck (and a bit of discipline) I might manage to take it easy today, only watering my newly planted gardens and closing my eyes to the work still to be done.

One benefit of having been so ruthless yesterday is that I was able to clear out around the daisies. And oh, aren’t they glorious! I might even snip off a flower or two to liven my kitchen.

Sometimes being snippy is a good thing.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

 

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Overdone

June 7, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Every year I tell myself I won’t overdo the work in my yard. Last year, I wasn’t all that interested in the garden, so I seldom worked too hard, but this year, I’m back to my old tricks. Because I tend to be goal-oriented and because unfinished tasks irk me, it’s hard to do just part of the work and let the rest go for another day. A couple of days ago, I cleared out a patch of the spent larkspur to create a space for some wildflower seeds I’d been gifted. (Since the giftee is coming to visit in a few months, I thought I should at least make an effort at growing the seeds.)

I did overdo, but I got the job done.

If that was all I was going to do for a while, I would have been fine, but then yesterday I decided to start clearing out the tulip gardens. Despite what the photo accompanying this post shows, the tulips are long gone — in fact, all that was left were the half-rotted leaves. After the tulips came the larkspur. (I was going to post the photo of the larkspur in full bloom, but I’m getting a bit leery of posting photos of my house, even though I’ve done so before.) And then the larkspur died off for the season.

So, yesterday, I started to clear out those two semi-circular beds, one on either side of the ramp. I figured to do a little and then a little more another day, but I started on one side, and then, determined to finish, did the other side. Yikes! Talk about overdoing! Although those garden areas look small, they loom large when one has to do the work. (Each semi-circle is about 15 ft by 5, so that isn’t all that small.)

After I cleared, hoed, raked, I planted dwarf zinnia seeds. So now it’s just a matter of watering them and keeping my fingers crossed.

I’m rather stiff today, totally overdone to be honest, so for sure I am going to take it easy. And as for the rest of the after-spring clean-up? I’ll take it nice and slow.

At least, that’s the plan. Who knows what I will actually end up doing, though chances are, as usual, I will overdo.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

 

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A Strange Avocation

June 4, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Gardening is certainly a strange avocation. What has happened year after year isn’t guaranteed to happen again this year, and what has never happened isn’t guaranteed to continue never happening.

This year, a few years after the seeds had been planted, hollyhocks suddenly decided to grow. Why? I don’t know. Snapdragons survived the winter intact, and at a time when they should just be getting started for the season, they are already finished blooming. The moss rose and marigolds seeded themselves as they sometimes do, but this year, even though I thinned them dramatically, they are still coming in so strong that I’ll have a jungle, especially considering that I’d already put in petunias. The poppies are a no show — none of the red corn poppies came back and only a single California poppy put in an appearance. Blanket flower is one of those plants that are supposedly impossible to get rid of, but one of my blanket flowers decided to get rid of itself. As in previous years, I’ve been blessed with an abundance of larkspur, but most are not going to seed the way they should. Also, a swath of them are lying flat, as if some animal used them for a wallow. Some other plants were flattened by the wind, but the larkspur are in a protected area, so who knows what’s going on.

Some things are going along as they should be — the lily tree garden is taller than ever and is filling in with offspring plants, though the flowers are budding a month early. The daylilies also seem to be spreading nicely, but oddly, one of the plants already had a flower, also a month early. The purple magnus echinacea are growing extremely well, but the flowers are now pink — some bright pink, some pale pink. (As soon as I’ve cleaned up my garden areas to ready them for summer, I might have to see where I can move some of them. It’s truly great having a ready source of transplantable plants, especially ones that do so well around here, and pink is always a cheery color.)

The yarrow was another plant that seemed to have been used as a wallow. It’s possible it’s been getting too much water, though it’s hard to believe that anything around here gets too much moisture. And anyway, I’ve been treating it the way I’ve always done. Still, this might be another plant that needs to be moved.

As you can see, in a garden, there’s always something different. The larkspur surprised me — I don’t know why they aren’t going to seed, but luckily I’ve saved seeds from previous years to make up for the lack. And, since I don’t have to wait for the seeds to mature to pull up the dead stalks, I can go ahead and plant other flowers now instead of in July as I normally have to, which is great. It’s hard to get anything to grow from seed in July around here — the ground dries out too fast.

I almost forgot to mention the bees! There are way more this year than normal. Some days my yard is buzzing from the sound of dozens of big black and yellow fuzzy bumblebees feasting on the larkspur. I’m hoping they’ll like other plants as well so they will stick around for a while. There’s something so pleasant and right-with-the-world to have bees in a garden.

All this and summer isn’t even here. More changes from previous years are on the way, I’m sure. But it’s all good. It’s a garden, after all.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

 

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Minimalism

June 3, 2026 — Pat Bertram
Daily writing prompt
Do you believe in minimalism?
View all responses

I’m not sure I believe in minimalism. I mean, I know it’s a “thing,” so I believe in its reality. I just don’t know how important it is as a universal lifestyle. Nor do I think it’s something I want to believe in for myself. Minimalism, by definition, is a philosophy centered on living intentionally with only what is essential. Sounds bleak to me. Not to take part in the abundance of today’s world? Not to celebrate small treats and treasures of the day?

Yep. Sounds bleak.

For artists and art lovers, minimalism is about simple-seeming artworks that the artist wants appreciated for the shapes and materials used rather than for some sort of narrative. Minimalism nowadays, though, generally refers to the way one lives. I imagine what is essential to a minimalist lifestyle depends on the person. I bet a lot of minimalists have more luxury items than I do — televisions, streaming services, fancy bathrooms, whatever. Of course, most people don’t consider those things luxury items, but a lot of what we take for granted truly is luxury — running water in the house, an “inhouse” rather than an outhouse, space to move around your home without being elbowed by others, heating systems, cooling systems, clothes washers and dishwashers. For thousands of years, these would have been considered unimaginable luxuries. Anything beyond these “basics” would have been utter opulence.

Hmm. I think I’m getting away from my premise. Or perhaps not. A true minimalist would be living in the woods, without any of these trappings of civilization, so I tend to think what the minimalists of today are really looking for is to own their possessions, not to be owned by them. Having a lot of things can weigh one down. Having to take care of a lot of things can take up time better spent on other things such as new experiences.

It’s funny to think how after Jeff died, I got rid of about half of all we owned together as well as all he owned by himself except for a small box of things I promised to keep plus a few items I couldn’t get rid of. Then, after my father died, I got rid of about half of what was left, just enough to fit in a single storage unit. My goal was to eventually get rid of everything and just live with what fit in my car. I liked the idea of not owning anything, mostly, I think, because I didn’t how I was going to live on my minimal income and I didn’t want to keep paying to store my personal effects.

Long before I could get rid of everything in my storage unit, I had the great good fortune to buy a house, which ended that minimally minimalist aspiration. So then I started in a time of “upsizing.” Besides my vintage car, I now own a house and a yard and a garage and furniture and appliances and tools and oh, so very many things. (A lot of the furnishings and such came from other people downsizing, so I suppose it evens out in the end.)

A few weeks ago, I responded to another blog prompt about Minimalist Living and mentioned that to a great extent, I do live a minimalist lifestyle, but as I said, I don’t call it that. I call it not buying things I didn’t need. I call it living debt-free, not buying anything I can’t afford right now. I call it using things up and not wasting anything.

Every once in a while, I think about owning all this stuff. Not worrying about it; just thinking what it means. My house, after all, couldn’t fit in a storage unit if it would ever come to that. But part of my “minimalism” feeling is realizing I won’t have to dispose of anything I own. With luck, I’ll be here until my end, and then it will be someone else who has the headache of figuring out what to do with it all.

Meantime, I live quietly, frugally (though frugal connotes a sense of deprivation, I don’t deprive myself of anything I want; I simply don’t want a whole lot).

So does this mean I believe in minimalism after all? No. I don’t believe in any movement. I was living small before there was such as thing as minimalism. I don’t need a name (or permission!) to live the way I am living.

To be honest, if you saw my house and my yard, minimalism would never enter your mind. You’d see (as people always tell me they see) comfort, coziness, cleanness. And lushness!! A fully modernized house with old-fashioned touches and set in a gorgeous yard is definitely not minimalist.

It is utter luxury.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

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Eye-Catching

June 1, 2026 — Pat Bertram
Daily writing prompt
Go on a walk today and share a photo of something that catches your eye.
View all responses

I thought I’d respond to this blog prompt by actually doing what it asked. I went on a walk! First time in I don’t know how long, though it must have been a very long time because the neighbors have been waiting outside for me to stop by, and well, as you can see, that didn’t have a good outcome for them.

I was only going to walk a couple of blocks just to say that I walked, but I ended up walking a couple of miles. It reminded me of what I liked about walking — the lovely morning, the clean smell, the soft air, the blue skies, the gentle breeze. But it also reminded me of why I have a hard time forcing myself to get back to daily walking — utter boredom. Nothing to see other than what I’ve already seen a thousand times. (Well, the family on the bench was a bit different configuration; they are often rearranged and dressed to memorialize the season with hearts, Easter baskets, or Santa hats.) In previous living situations, when I walked for miles each day, I was able to find isolated paths, hiking trails, and vistas within walking distance of where I lived, but now all I see are the same houses, the same parked cars, the same cracked pavements, the same brown fields.

I’d walked all over town during my first years here, and because of a definite dog problem in this area, I soon learned to stick to one guaranteed safe route. But oh, so utterly boring seeing the same thing over and over and over again. (It’s why I stopped going to the library — the thousandth time I saw those same books did me in.) When I do manage to get out to walk (hard in the summer because I use up my energy on yard work), I try to think of it as a walking meditation, paying attention to the simple act of walking, but then I become aware of my slightly unsteady knees, and that’s no fun.

But that wasn’t today. Today was a real treat. It was also nice to find out I can still walk at least that far without any trouble. Added to the benefit, I exchanged a few words with one neighbor and made a point of stopping to visit with a friend.

Tomorrow, I get back to yard word, so there won’t be time or energy or inclination for a spur of the moment walk. Today was a rare day off, taken because in a few days, I won’t have any days off. The larkspur are finished flowering (which is odd because usually at the end of May they are at the height of their beauty). Soon the seed pods will form, which means collecting the seeds and pulling up the dead larkspur — not an easy task since there are so many of them. And after that, it’s a matter of planting new flower seeds for the summer, buying new plants, or transplanting overcrowded plants to fill in empty spots.

Later in the summer, there will be more color, and perhaps a real explosion of color come fall when the chrysanthemum bloom. Actually, it’s the lack of things to see outside of my own yard that helped me overcame my reluctance for work-heavy landscaping in order to have something fun to see. Even in a time where so many flowers are finished for the season, there are new areas that are flowering.

In fact, the thing that most caught my eye during today’s excursion (besides my skeletal neighbors, that is) was my own wildflower garden leading up to my back door.

These yellow coreopsis (or coreopsises or even coreopses for you Latin afficionados) started with only a couple of seedlings, and now look! So prolific and so sunny.

Truly eye-catching.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

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Nothing Doing

May 28, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I live in a town with a unique atmospheric configuration: a donut. Sometimes storms that punish surrounding areas gently move around the town as if to spare us good folk. Other times, it says “Oops, made a mistake,” and dumps the months of missed rain all at once while sparing others.

It rained almost all day yesterday, from about 11:00am to 8:00pm. Part of that was a beginning and an ending drizzle, but for the rest, it was a respectable rain. I imagine with as widespread as the storm was and as long as it lasted, that this entire area got much needed rain, not just as, and that’s great — it’s been months since we’ve had any moisture that made a significant difference.

The best part for me is that, aside from the great all-around soaking rather than simply the area watering that I do, is that I get two days off from . . . well, from everything. I won’t need to water for at least a couple of days. The ground is so wet that although pulling up weeds is easier, the heavy clay mud takes the “fun” out of the chore. And the alley I’d have to navigate if I wanted to use my car, is a quagmire.

It’s funny that even though every day is a day off for me, rain days and après rain days still seem a special treat of nothing doing (doing a whole lot of nothing, in other words). Oh, for sure, I will do things — a load of laundry is drying at the moment — but I get to cocoon myself in a dry home while the outside world deals with mud, bugs, and humidity. Tomorrow I’ll probably go out and pull a few weeds or do something to make me feel productive, because by then, the squishy mud will have dried to a more even footing. (You’d think with my grassy areas and crushed rock pathways, that mud wouldn’t be an issue, but most of my garden areas are too big for a simple reach. I actually have to climb in among the plants to get to the objectionable ones.) But tomorrow is not something I have to worry about today.

Today is . . .  freedom!

 

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

 

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Decision, Decisions

May 26, 2026 — Pat Bertram

During the past fifteen years or so, I’ve had to make a lot of decisions. Life and death type decisions. (Other people’s deaths, my continued life.) Decisions such as how to get through the next minute, hour, year. Decisions such as where to go, what to do.

My decisions today are trivial compared to those decisions that had such far-reaching consequences. In fact, these current decisions don’t really have any close-reaching consequences, either. I suppose in the long run, today’s decisions could have consequences since almost everything does, but anything that might come from these decisions is more a matter of taste and perspective than anything else.

For example, some of the flowers I planted in my raised garden a couple of years ago went to seed, and those flowers did well and they too eventually went to seed and filled in around the vegetables I planted last year. Since I can never count on any seed sprouting, instead of simply watering the raised garden and seeing what would happen, I planted petunias. Shortly afterward, a huge number of seedlings from previous plantings appeared. I hoed them under, not wanting them to compete with the petunias, but then another crop of seedling appeared.

Some of these seedlings are grass, I think, and those I can get rid of as soon as I know for sure. Others are marigolds and still others are moss roses. One decision to make is if I want the orange from the marigolds to break up my color scheme of pale yellow, bright pink, and dark red petunias. Another is if I should just let the seedlings do what they want, and if they end up interfering with my artistic sense, I can transplant the mature marigolds into empty garden spots. Or I could eventually move the petunias. Or I could . . .

See? Decisions. Decisions.

I’m not one for making decisions anymore, not that I ever was. By the time I look at every side of an issue or a problem, I usually come to the conclusion that either way has its good and bad points and makes no difference which I choose, which ends in a decision-making stalemate. (If there’s a major benefit to one point of view, then obviously there’s no decision to make. It’s the evenly balanced choices that get to me every time.)

Luckily, I don’t have to decide anything. I can wait to see what happens, but I also know that once the plants take hold, I won’t want to get rid of them. Transplant them, yes. Treat them as weeds, no.

Meantime, there are plenty of other things to do in the yard, things that need no decisions made about them. Well, that’s not true. The cottage pinks in the wildflower garden need a “haircut,” but do I do it now or wait until they’ve gone to seed? Or do I do it now and leave a few stalks to go to seed. More decisions!

I know one thing that doesn’t need any decisions made about it. In fact, I completely forgot about this dwarf evening primrose until I saw it in my predawn watering cycle.

Luckily, I don’t have to do anything about any of this today. Tomorrow can take care of itself.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

 

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Garden Update

May 25, 2026 — Pat Bertram

After the thrill of seeing what plants return from their winter hiatus comes the payback. A seedy garden. Not seedy as in disreputable or sleazy. Literally seedy. As in going to seed.

There are still a few columbines blooming, particularly the bright late-blooming ones, but the blue/purple columbines are already past their first bloom and are going to seed.

The orange wallflower stopped blooming, and the larkspur, always a joy in their purple majesty, are also going to seed. The snapdragons are still blooming, and might continue to bloom throughout the summer, but the first blossoms are going to seed. One of the few flowers brightening the snapdragon garden is this single California poppy that came from who knows where.

If I were a real gardener with a show-piece garden, I’d be pulling up the seedy annuals and deadheading the perennials, but being an amateur who’s just winging it, I let all the plants go to seed, though perhaps I will deadhead the snapdragons if I get the inclination because at the moment, a lot of the plants look terrible. Mostly, I let the seeds scatter where they will; others I harvest in case there comes a year when the larkspur and other colorful spring growers decide not to come back. Also, it’s great to have seeds to share.

The seedy part of the garden is only half the story. Other plants are coming into their own, such as the cottage pinks, which come in various shades from white to fuchsia.

The various penstemon are also starting to bloom, though this bright pink one is already in full bloom. The penstemon and the cottage pinks sure do complement each other.

The cheerful coreopsis are just beginning their summer odyssey. It’s no mystery why they look like yellow daisies — though of different genera, both belong to the Asteraceae (Aster) family.

The following is one of my favorite photos so far this year. I love the juxtaposition of those primary colors: the yellow snapdragons, the bright red firecracker penstemon and the last of the larkspur. Even better, each of those three plants is a miracle. Around here, snapdragons are a tender perennial, mostly coming back by reseeding themselves, but this year, the plants themselves survived the winter. The larkspur self-seeded, and while the penstemon didn’t self-seed, it came from a seed that had been planted years before and somehow decided this was the time to grow.

As always, the lawn is an issue — although the highest temperatures so far have only been in the nineties, low humidity and sun intensity have been drying out the grass, but so far, except in patches, it’s doing well.

In a couple of weeks, after I harvest the larkspur seeds and pull up the dead stalks, a whole other layer of plants will be revealed. Luckily, there’s always something new to keep my interest that makes the vast amount of work worthwhile.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

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