The Never-ending Song

  My daughter Terry is an avid gardener.  She is also very observant, seeing so many wee creatures many of us often miss.  Recently she sent me pictures of a newcomer to her Gladiola.  He/she is a caterpillar and not a familiar one.  I have always picked up caterpillars-usually those fuzzy black and brown ones called Wooly Bears who are purported to be able to predict the upcoming winter.  They are soft with black faces and shiny bright eyes.  One that used to be a very familiar sight was the green hairless Monarch butterfly caterpillar. There used to be many of them nibbling away on Milkweed.  Now we seldom see those tall, pink, flowering stalks along the roadside or in the meadows.  I loved the fragrance.  As children my sister and I spent hours removing the drying pods in the Fall, opening them to release the silky parachutes, each  with it's small brown seedman dangling beneath.  These are the mainstay of the Monarch butterfly larva.  No Milkweed--no Monarchs-no caterpillars to

  The tiny tomato plant never grew to be more than 8 inches tall.  Rather amusing that it would be considered "legal" here under the 10 inch plant regulation except for one thing--it is edible.  Well not the plant itself, but rather the fruit it produced.  I had rescued it, fed and watered it through the summer.  It was hidden between a large Geranium and the overgrown Lavender.  It never got much sun and being beneath the porch overhang, would not have received much rain either.  So I carried out jugs of water daily to keep it moist.  It began to produce wee red tomatoes, 2 at first, then miniature yellow blooms which became green, then orange, then red cherry tomatoes.  They were sweet and juicy. Perhaps I enjoyed them even more as they arrived in pairs spaced days apart. Now as Autumn approaches, the leaves of the tiny tomato plant are turning yellow.  The spindly branches bend low bearing the last of it's luscious treats---5 more wee red globes.  Who would believe it

  For some time now I have been debating whether or not to write about these strange events which are connected to recently departed people. Today it is rainy, humid, a gloomy day, so what better time to put on paper my recollections of two similar and unexplainable  happenings?  Make of them what you will. Recently my close friend Sylvia passed away from a stroke.  She lived in the apartment next to mine.  She did not die there--made it to the hospital; however, she did not make it back home.  Her apartment is still vacant.  The maintenance man has replaced the carpet, painted the walls, and done minor repairs.  Two people had signed up to rent it.  Apartments here never stay vacant more than the few days it takes to make them ready.  The first one, a man, came to check it out before moving in.  After being inside briefly he told the manager he changed his mind.  No reason given that I am aware of.  I don't know what happened with the woman who was next in line to move in.  She ha