I wrote this a few years ago after spending two springs enjoying their company and the horse manure they offered me for my roses, who are very thankful. The husband has now passed on and the wife has moved into smaller accommodations but I will never forget them and wanted to share with you from my Gardener's Journal a few years ago.

My experiences with horse manure are wonderful pages in the lives of two wonderful people, who freely give of their stalls and fields, the manure to my roses. They are older, and some days my gardener and I seem to be their only link with life after a bleak winter inside. He sits in a wheelchair while she comes out to open the gate, swooshes the horses back. Forsythia is beginning to break dormancy, a sure sign spring is near. The horses are frisky today. The sun is shining brightly. Once we are inside, she asks me to join her in walk over to the cottage for a cup of tea, whilst the gardener eyes the horses more cautiously and curiously than the manure. It is all laid out, brown, dried, no odor, just good dried stuff, ready for placing in the truck.

This is recycling at its best. My gardener, James, shovels while I listen to her stories of different lands, different horses she rode. Her husband sits under the shelter of the "big house" in which they now reside which was probably very grandiose in its day but time has worn the facial boards and the columns are now adorned with peeling paint that flutters in the wind like a butterfly on wing. Upkeep may have been out of their physical or fiscal reach, and the cottage in which we have tea most likely occupied by caretakers through the years, is well appointed, though dank from the long wet winter. Although dimly lit, I can see the care she has taken to artfully furnish this cozy place which is probably her retreat. The well-worn furniture speaks of a genteel past, and it is complimented by equestrian paintings, landscapes, still life, and portraits of the genteel lady whose face, lined with character, draws the tea. She explains with a smile, they were all done by the man whose blanket warms and hides the stumps which once were the legs of an avid golfer, rider and tennis player. Today they each live in a different world, a day goneby, because I have come here to listen to her stories of their travel. He is entertained by the housekeeper and warmed by the sun under the porch of the once-stately mansion, while she and I share tea by the fire she has built, as she recalls how they met, their travels, their childless lives together, loving their horses, their pursuits, their travels dearly, such that there was no room nor time for anyone else, just each other, their social circle, their luggage, passports and the horses. It is a sweet story but leaves me wishing their were children, children to care, to carress, to listen and tend. Children deserve to be parented by these two. She is saddened by her empty womb, it is obvious, but she tries to hide that as she glances toward her husband whose skin is pale and his his hands tremulous. She goes on as if trying to convince him (although he is not within ear shot), me, if not herself, that their lives are complete, on track, where they want to be - just them and their horses. For a short time today, they were back in Europe, Asia, riding horses, cruising to distant islands, hosting and attending luxurious dinner parties, playing golf, painting and shopping.


I offer them ten five 50-pound bags of alfalfa for the truck loads of manure, a bargain for the horses and me. Time is at hand, the truck is loaded, but it is obvious she wants me to linger on although I am paying the gardener $15 an hour while she chats. I must go, although I would like to stay for her, for him and for me. I have learned a great deal, have come to appreciate the pages of her book as she turns them through her words. As we stroll back toward the truck past the Carolina jasmine, I offer "treats" to the horses who know I have brought sugar cubes, while she explains the necessity of having goats with her horses and the role they play in the horses' healthcare. The day is worth more than the price of the bags of alfalfa and the $30.00 for the labor. It is priceless. I relived with her the days when she donned her regalia to cheering crowds in across the globe, cruised the Mediterranean, the difficulties transporting the horses, her husbands' love of golf and the courses he had played, the down time painting by the sea. It is a recollection of lovely memories she shared with me over cups of tea, a cozy fire at a farm table.

I wave goodbye to her husband, while the gardener pushes her grateful, smiling husband and his wheelchair into the house for her, and I moved the truck outside the gate, waiting for him to return. James opened the door, fastened his seat belt after assuring himself he had secured the large wrought iron gate, the truck gate and the shovel he had laid atop the manure. She turns, smiling, waving back at me like an Oscar winner, while the truck named Oscar by me, long ago chugs along pushing toward my garden which will appreciate the manure as much as I have the stories I heard, the lives who trusted me to become a part of them, which will linger long after rose season is gone. James looks at me as if to say, "they are lonely and we should have stayed," but instead he says, "I think she wanted you to stay and visit. She's a nice lady. You need to come back and stay a while, bring her some roses one day."

My task is at hand, to share my roses while they share more than manure, but a glimpse into their lives of yesterday and the reality of what is to come. Today, we all basked in the sunlight of spring and relived the spring of their lives, during the winter of their remaining days.