“If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.” ーMark Twain
Photos Courtesy of Ginny Neil
Nina Bawden, a well-known writer for both children and adults, once said, “All writers are liars. They twist events to suit themselves. They make use of their own tragedies to make a better story … They are terrible people.”
I am one of the terrible people. I write essays, and sometimes I tell things a bit slant. On this, my 10-year anniversary of writing a column for Blue Ridge Country, I decided to re-read all I have written thus far, so as not to repeat myself.
I laughed, winced and cried a little as I travelled back in time. Most of the columns felt as if they had happened yesterday. But, in some of the columns, I discovered that I had lied. My mother used to call them little white lies. In my defense, all the little white lies were written because I needed to predict what I might be doing in two months to be relevant to publishing deadlines.
In the interest of truth, I’d like to share some updates with my readers.
In March of 2017, I wrote a column in which I promised that I would “learn the Latin names of all my flowery friends.” Eight years later, there are only about 10 Latin names that I can consistently remember. Besides, I don’t want to give up names like “foam flower,” or “spring beauty” or “lady’s slipper.” They give me hope when winter has about done me in.
In 2018, I wrote that I would “maintain a neat border” along my flower beds by using a tool called an edger. I intended to buy one, so I wrote it on a list. Anyone who has read my March 2019 column will not be surprised to learn that lists, like garden plans, tend to sneak off and hide in places like sock drawers.
I wrote that I sat inside a circle of sunflowers that I planted and peered up at “bees bumping the yellow flowers against a bright blue sky.” Here’s the truth: whenever I sat in it, I noticed weeds that needed to be pulled or how itchy it is to sit inside a structure made of hairy stems and leaves. I never stayed long enough for those darn bees to arrive.
In honor of my favorite poem by Walt Whitman I intended to plant 1,000 daffodils on the hill above my house. My soil is rocky. I have only managed to scratch out 400 sorry holes, thus far. No matter. In the spring the show is so spectacular that my heart “dances with the daffodils” anyways.
I wrote about intending to maintain lovely paths I created in the woods so I could enjoy spring’s early ephemerals. But, the cows enjoyed them, too. They thanked me for creating such an easy path through the trees with big piles of poo. After stepping in a few, I gave up. The paths at the Edith J. Carrier Arboretum in Harrisonburg are much prettier, and there are no big piles in sight.
My reign as the Beet Queen of the Highland County Fair ended this year. I was usurped by a 20-something, back-to-the-lander who obviously read my September 2022 column and stole all my secrets for picking and polishing. Sharing them in a magazine was probably a bad move on my part. The only consolation was that I won first place for ugliest squash. There I go embellishing for effect again. There isn’t such a prize. But, if there had been, I definitely would have won it.
Stealth Squirrel is still sneaking around the walnut trees in my yard and stealing nuts, and he’s enlisted some helpers: White Nose and Red Tail. They all work for SSIN (Stealth Squirrel Intelligence Network). They will probably be offered an early retirement package by the government, soon.
I guess I should be proud that in all the approximately 36,000 words I have written about singing in a garden, in the lee of the mountains, by the side of a river, circled by meadows, that I have only lied with about 150 of those words.
I am doing better than some politicians. They probably don’t garden, so I will send them all a packet of seeds and tell them to do better. And, I will try to do better, myself. Wait! Was one of those statements a little white lie? It’s so hard to tell, isn’t it?
The story above first appeared in our May / June 2025 issue.
