Yaddo

Sunday morning 5:30am. I have friends that tell me such times do not exist on their clocks. Nothing before at least noon (it often seems that way with my kids too). I woke at the sound of my younger brother Jim getting ready to go to work at Hannaford groceries. I knew I had to get an early start myself in order to get to Rochester to pick up the key to our apartment before the movers arrived. We had a noon appointment preceded by a four hour drive, so I had told the boys, who had spent the night with their father, to be up and ready to go by no later than eight. That meant I needed to leave Mom's by 7, so I had thought to get up by 6:30.



But it was no good. I was awake, and loathe to lay abed a whole hour wasting time. I decided I would tiptoe out of the house and maybe find a quiet spot on the way for a time of meditation and prayer. As I left my parents' picturesque A-frame, I could just see the lake glinting in the early morning sun down the mountain. The previous evening there had been a tree blocking the road from the Glens Falls side of Bell Mountain, so I headed down the Lake George side.



As I drove along, I tried to think where I might pull over to read a bit of Scripture and pray. After all, it was Sunday, and I would have no chance to attend church, much less spend any time with the good Lord. "Lord," I prayed. "Show me where to go - some special place where I can meet with You." Suddenly I remembered Yaddo. It was perfect! And it was just off the Northway close to exit 14.



Yaddo is an artist retreat, a place where poets, authors, painters and artists of all kinds come to meet with their muse. Notable people have stayed there in the past (see http://www.yaddo.org/ ). Just outside the private areas there is a riotous rose garden surrounded by reflecting pools and marble statues. Surely early on a Sunday it would be all but deserted.



I pulled into the shaded drive and back into the silent woods away from the highway. I nosed the car over a narrow bridge, listening to the gravel crunch under the tires. After parking, I followed the signs to the rose garden, though I could just as well have followed my nose - the heady fragrance of roses met me at every turn. I paused at the first fountain, peering into the shallow depths to see if they still kept coy, but there were none there. No water lilies either. No matter.



I could see the splashes of color ahead where the formal gardens were, and I hurried toward them expectantly. They were in full bloom, branches bowed down to the ground, all colors and sizes in neat and orderly rows, nodding gently in the early morning sun as if waiting for me.



I wandered slowly on the grassy paths, the dew painting my toes chilly with delight, stopping to admire the delicate blush of the champaign roses, burying my face in the rose bushes on the far side. Here in the direct center was the second pool, filled with water lilies and coy who rose to meet my shadow, grouping the surface for handouts that I could not give.



Here and there a spiderweb was pearled with tiny dots of water, betraying the spinner's hideout. At the top of the garden area is a long arched trellis wired with select roses, each carefully named and pruned to best effect. I made my way to the north side of the bower and gazed down the manicured length, my eyes finally lighting on the bench in the very heart of beauty.



But alas! The bench was occupied by a pipe smoking gentleman in what I guessed might be his early sixties. His mane of hair was tinged a respectable gray and his neck was swathed in a maroon silk scarf. He was engaged in reading a book, seemingly unaware of his unusual surroundings.



For a moment, I thought perhaps he was one of the artists come for early morning inspiration, perhaps writing a novel himself. The tomb he held in his hand was leatherbound and voluminous. I hesitated, not wanting to disturb or wander where I was unwelcome. But he glanced up and halloed at me so I responded, wandering slowly toward him, stopping to admire the various roses on each side and over my head.



He laughed a bit and said, "You won't find much fragrance in these beauties. These are the hybrids, all fragrance genetically removed in favor of vibrant color. Bah - I am disgusted with them. Now if you really want to experience a rose, take a hike back behind here in the pine trees. There are some vagrant roses who have escaped the gardener's ploys. There you will find extraordinary rose." He waved over his shoulder toward a patch of evergreens.



"Thank you, I will," I replied. We chatted for a few moments. Turns out he comes to Yaddo every Sunday morning to read poetry. He feels it is the only safe place for a construction worker like himself to indulge such a fetish. He has been coming for over thirty years. Said he rarely ever sees anyone else.



I followed his direction and did indeed discover an extraordinary rose - one I would not have found without his assistance. There was a bench just yards away where I sat with my pocket new testament, reading from Psalms the equally fragrant words of David about love, life, trouble and deliverance. I smiled at where God had decided to meet me. What a wonderful time we had.



Too soon it was time to leave. I was almost afraid I had delayed too long. On my way to the car, I found a perfect rose that had been neatly severed from its bush - a delicate pink. I picked it up, and on the way out of town to meet my destiny in Rochester, I lay the perfect rose on Michael's grave, just to let him know I have not forgotten him, just to share with him a moment of beauty and joy.