by Sr Nunother  

When I think of fall, I think of mums — robust orange, red, and yellow — profuse and sturdy, taking a last floral stand before winter prevails.  They evoke memories of my father, who tended his flower gardens with infinite patience.  He wasn’t a perfect man, but he was a perfect gardener, coaxing beauty from the rich Pennsylvania soil that surrounded our home.  Two multi-colored strip gardens of mums bordered our yard and starred in their own autumn display.  I was proud of my father’s workmanship and found in it love he was sometimes unable to express.  I didn’t receive his gardening gift.  But I did receive, either through inheritance or observation, his love for beauty and respect for its presence in our world.