This past Mother's Day I shared the following story at a banquet hosted by the Armenian Congregational Church in Southfield. It was originally written between 1992-1994. It has a bit of an Armenian flavor to it. Enjoy.For three glorious weeks each summer I escape. No longer Lori-the-mom, Lori-the-wife, Lori-the-Girls-Club-Leader, I become Lori-the-spoiled-daughter-in-law. The much anticipated weeks of rest and relaxation begin with a 14-hour drive from Michigan to the door of what my family lovingly calls the Camp House (Kemp Doon in Armenian). As we tumble out of the van, Mom and Dad Kalajian greet us with hugs and kisses and we immediately assume a pace of life that would be comfortable for a middle-aged snail on the cool side of a rock.
My father-in-law purchased the Camp House over forty years ago and each summer its rooms fill with happy vacationers on retreat from the routine of life. And what a retreat! The place could easily make the cover of a lawn and garden magazine—a gorgeous oasis just a short walk from the Atlantic Ocean at the beginning of Cape Cod’s hook.
Hydrangea bushes flank the whitewashed arbor entrance, standing guard along the picket fence: beautiful, blue hydrangea bushes so pregnant with bloom their stems bow to the ground. The house, a two-story white wooden home with gabled windows and dark shutters, sits on the left side of an oversized lot walled on the right property line by towering pines that meet untamed woods behind. Massive rhododendrons, easily 15-feet tall, line the front portion of the left fence then dwindle to a smattering of blackberry bushes and other plants until the grounds incline and the fence ends at the vegetable garden behind the house.
Mounds of variegated hostas and flowers in every color, shape and size, slope down from the back of the grounds to the apple tree. A bed of flowering bushes dotted with pink and yellow blooms lies in front of the pine trees and is separated from a lovely rose garden by a busy bird bath. Next to the roses, a second white-washed arbor covered in vines and blooms is topped by a spinning whirligig. The crowning glory of the landscaped paradise, a bubbling, tiered fountain, stands majestically in the middle of a circular bed of exotic flowers.
It almost goes without saying—the picture just wouldn’t be complete—without a huge covered porch wrapping around the front and side of the house dripping with baskets of flowers. One morning, after a tremendous breakfast (you know Armenians like to eat and my mother-in-law is a phenomenal cook), we were enjoying a cup of coffee on the porch relaxing in the hospitality of its glider and several rocking chairs. Only a couple of minutes passed and a very upset little bird began yelling at us from a nearby tree. Not speaking bird language, we didn’t understand her squawking reprimand. We brushed it off, finished our coffee and made our way to the beach.
We had a wonderful afternoon making sandcastles, taking walks along the shore and climbing on the jetties. Almost everyone braved the frigid Atlantic waters for a swim, except this Kentucky girl who just can’t take that cold water. We polished off my mother-in-law’s picnic lunch of fresh lamajun, pickles, fruit and gooey homemade cookies warmed by the summer sun. When the shadows slipped over the bluff darkening the sand and chilling the air, we packed up our blankets, baskets and babies and climbed the 130-plus stairs up the side of the cliff. We walked back to the house slowly, filled with that good kind of tired.
I was one of the first ones in and out of the shower with my little girl. With a towel still on my head I plopped down with Noelle on the metal glider to wait for her daddy to take her so I could set the table for dinner. From the glider, my favorite spot, I smelled good things already sizzling on the grill. I sunk into the cushions and let out a contented sigh.
In a flash a little bird darted from one of the potted geraniums hanging along the edge of the porch and flew to a nearby tree. It looked like the same little bird that had thrown its tantrum earlier in the day and my curiosity got the best of me. Just what was going on with this crazy bird? I wondered. Reluctantly pushing off the glider, I peaked inside the hanging plant and found the source of the bird’s frustration. Two fuzzy chicks called that geranium home.
The poor mother bird had no warning her quiet nesting spot would be invaded by noisy vacationers. Yet there we were. And there were her babies demanding to be fed and cared for.
That the chicks survived until this point seemed miraculous in itself. I wondered how many times my mother-in-law had dumped a kettle full of water and plant food on them unknowingly, but the nest was on the outside of the porch and probably didn’t get a direct hit.
I shared my find with the rest of the family and all watering and feeding immediately stopped. We made sure the mother bird had undisturbed time each day to tend her young ones. We peeked through the front windows watching her drop food in the open beaks of her hungry babies, and when she flew away we would sneak on the front porch for a closer look.
There’s something touching about watching a weak young life grow strong. Each day brings new development and strength—and an anticipation of the day they’ll achieve what they were born to do—spread their wings and fly, fly, fly!
As the fledglings grew, the vibrant red geranium withered. Green, moist leaves became brown and brittle. Flowers dropped one by one to the porch and the ground below. The geranium lost its life, but the little birds lived.
There are so many life situations that parallel this story. I thought of my little girl who will continue the cycle of life with her children after I’m gone. I thought of Mom and Dad Kalajian and how much they had worked to provide this beautiful refuge for their family—now and as a heritage to remember them by long after their passings.
And, of course, I thought of Jesus who gave His life for me so I could live. If I can only spread my wings and fly for Him—becoming what He created me to be—honoring the sacrifice He made when He died for me.
The day the geranium died was not a sad day. Little birds flew away to make their own nests elsewhere—hopefully, for their sakes, not on someone’s front porch. The wilted geranium will be pruned and stored in the basement over the winter, and next spring it will be hung back out on the porch, watered and fed. The sun will shine new life into its faded existence—and it will flower again.
