My father was a florist. Flowers meant work when I was little. I’d unwrap newspaper from poinsettia plants at Christmas and lilies at Easter. Hundreds of them protected from the Connecticut cold in a old livery-stable garage behind Cherry Hill Gardens.
Now I’m so strongly drawn to flowers that they’d be #1 on my list of what I’d miss if they were gone. Here’s my not-so-secret garden:
In all my years living on Mount Desert Island I had never been to the Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Garden. Reservations had to be made months before for a two-hour visit to this usually private wonderland, scattered with Asian stone sculptures dating back more than 400 years. How did I miss this spot?
Stop and smell the roses…isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing as we grow older?
Another glorious place on the way out of Northeast Harbor is Thuya Garden. A bit less secret, it’s always open to the public. There’s a couch at one end of the exquisite formal garden that promotes quiet, either sitting there myself or with a friend. How can I not be in awe?