Mister Owita's Guide to Gardening: How I Learned the Unexpected Joy of a Green Thumb and an Open Heart by Carol Wall Page A

we all knew well and watched out for, the Reverend Gerald Jacks, a longtime widower. He was a Lutheran minister, retired, a neighbor from two streets over. His children, who lived away, had crept cautiously into town to give him a lavish eightieth birthday party several years ago, and then headed back to the West Coast, where they seemed to be hidingout. Their reticence was understandable, their father being one of those intimidating people who seemed destined to hold his power to the grave. His thatch of white hair took the shape of flames licking up from the pit of hell, and no one in the neighborhood had ever seen him without his thick black glasses. They magnified his unruly salt-and-pepper eyebrows and emphasized the harshness of his pale blue, peering eyes.
    As the dusty station wagon crept along, the Reverend Jacks made a point to leer at Giles Owita. This rudeness happened just as I knew it would, and I felt responsible and helpless, all at once. Yet given how he’d responded to a similar insult from his manager at the grocery store, I wasn’t surprised when Giles Owita turned the other cheek with a respectful nod.
    “He must be a relative of your boss at the supermarket,” I quipped halfheartedly. I noticed that Giles Owita’s eyes held a twinkle in response.
    Reverend Jacks had truly tested my patience over the years. When our older son, Chad, was learning to drive, he was merciless in riding Chad’s bumper or tooting the horn to point out any small mistake. Far more unforgivable, he became the only person in the neighborhood who cast a menacing eye toward Phil’s young basketball teammates, especially those of color.
    “Could you believe that when a pair of hedge clippers went missing from that man’s garage, the reverend called our house and asked me if any of Phil’s ‘colored’ friends had been around that afternoon?”
    “Yes. I could believe,” Giles Owita answered calmly.
    “I gave Reverend Jacks a piece of my mind, with no holding back,” I continued. “I called him a racist and a sinner, and asked him what on earth anyone would want with his rusty clippers. Later on, he found the clippers in the shrubbery, where he himself had left them when the sun became too much for him.”
    Giles Owita clucked his tongue.
    “At least he called to let us know,” I said as Giles Owita turned back to his work. “Perhaps I should give him credit for that. Growing old is an accomplishment, as you have said.”
    “It is more difficult to contain our hurts when others are affected,” Giles Owita observed. “We are prone to speak out on their behalf, as you did for me, that evening at the store. That is a good thing, I believe. I certainly appreciated it, and told my wife about it. Such times can be lonely. There are times when no one is assumed to be a friend.”
    “You must have had to confront that kind of bigoted, disrespectful treatment more than I can possibly imagine,” I said.
    He gave a gentle shrug. “Most people are very nice, and the ones who aren’t, you can tell from the first time you meet them.”
    At last he put the finishing touches on the third azalea. Then he pulled a white protective mask from the pocket of his work suit and slipped it on. His eyes shone brightly as he motioned that, for safety’s sake, I should step away. With Rhudy, I retreated to the top of the slight incline where I was content to sit on the grass, a safe distance away from where Giles Owita sprayed his chemicals. It amazed me the way he’d managed to find fulfillment in a world far removed from everything he mostlikely knew and loved as a boy. It was odd, but sitting in the grass in my own front yard, I felt a bit transported, too. My various lists seemed less important. What I needed was patience.
    I tipped my face to the sky and breathed in deeply. Maybe it wasn’t just an excuse that Dick and I had been too busy with other things—such as raising our children and helping our parents—to care for our