More than a decade ago, when Richard and I began restoring our “dream place,” the formerly blighted industrial property bounded by the thread of channelized creek where we live, we had no plan, no budget, and no real concept of how much work lay ahead. We did have a vision of healing the land and its degraded creek, reestablishing the community of the land right in town, and a comfortable sense of time in which to do the work.
Today, 14 years after we bought the place (or it adopted us, depending on your point of view), that vision flourishes in richer ways than we imagined: our block of creek is a thriving thread of fall color, enlivened by the sound of running water; our restored native meadow yard is dotted with late wildflowers and resounds with the bell-like calls of feeding goldfinches; the organic kitchen garden that grows where oil tanks once stood feeds us—and friends and neighbors.
There’s still a good bit of work to be done: piles of red sandstone pavers wait where our bedroom patio will be, for instance, the creek-side dining area is still a barely revegetated dirt road on the upper bank, and the inner courtyard looks more like the parking lot for heavy equipment it was than a peaceful retreat with pond and falling water.
Some day those things may be completed. But it’ll be by one of us, not two: my partner in this work, the sculptor responsible for the structures that enliven and interpret the stories of this reclaimed formerly industrial plot, and the native rocks that give a sense of contour and place, my husband Richard and the love of my life for the past 28 years, has terminal brain cancer.
These days he talks about his plans for the water feature in the courtyard or the stacks of flagstone, but struggles to muster sufficient energy to sit up in bed, much less to maneuver boulders and granite-carving tools.
I grieve for the work he will not do, for his vision of working with native rocks as “ambassadors of the earth” to connect our daily lives and routines to this planet and our place, whether river-rock finials on an arbor, bathroom lavatories carved from rough local rock, or the spectacular gas fire pit he created from a ton of native granite boulder for an architect’s courtyard.
I grieve for his bright spirit, for all I’ve learned from him, for the work we’ve collaborated on, most especially this place we share.
As I sit beside him looking out at the bright autumn sunshine, I realize that even when Richard’s no longer beside me, he’ll live on in his work and in this place, the ugly industrial property no one wanted, now flourishing with a tapestry of native lives, from the lichen-covered boulders he placed just so to the riot of wildflowers, butterflies, native bees and hummingbirds, to the tiny trout swimming under the native shrubs in the revived creek.
A lesser goldfinch calls with chiming notes and we smile at each other. The slanting rays of the sun pick out the last few crimson Indian paintbrush and highlight the whimsical, eyebrow-like flower heads of the blue grama grass. Brain cancer or no, joy blooms here.
Whatever else we have done in our lives together, this place, restored to beautiful life again after decades of disrespect and degradation, carries on the love we share. As life cycles on in ways we could not have imagined, its revival is our final joint work, our gift to the future.