The Preakness Tree
The abandoned shed in the neighbor's yard
The Preakness weekend came up again, and once again, although I tried mightily this year, I couldn't bring myself to go. There are still too many ghosts in that racetrack. Instead, I joined my brother in what has become our new annual tradition: The planting of the Preakness Tree in honor of our late Father.
For the Race itself on Saturday, I hid away in the Washington D.C. suburbs for the annual Joint Service Open House at Andrew's Air Force Base. In the hot sun we walked the tarmac of the airfield, wandering in and around aircraft of all kinds, from those I am very familiar with - the C-17, C-130, etc. - to the obscure and historic, side by side with the most modern and sophisticated aircraft flown by our military.
On Sunday, I joined my brother and nephew for our annual ritual. A quick stop for coffee, and then the browse through the trees and plants at the garden store. My brother mostly picked through the trees and bushes, while I chased after my nephew, who has a four-year-old's energy, curiosity, and insatiable need to touch and possibly throw everything within his reach. Choosing the right bush or tree is sometimes tricky. It's got to feel right. It's got to have some personal meaning, and, most of all, Dad would have to have liked it. He loved to garden, and took pride in his trees and flowering plants.
After a while, we settled on a matching pair of butterfly bushes. I'm not sure why they're called 'butterfly bushes', but I think it has to do with the fact that they attract butterflies.
We dug a matching pair of holes along the side of the yard, correctly spaced out and to the right depth and width according to the planting instructions we were given. To make space, we removed an older growth that had been there for years. I think it was a gigantic and hardy weed. Another bush was spared because, as we brought our picks and axes to bear, we discovered a robin's nest in its' branches, with three newly-hatched birds sleeping peacefully. In our process, we uncovered a plastic toy ray gun, some garbage, a snake that we had difficulty identifying, and a bone that looked much like a vertebrae.
With my nephew's help, we planted our bushes, watered them down, and took a moment to bask in our handiwork. We called our other brother in Los Angeles, poured some fine bourbon into a couple of jelly jars, and had a toast to our Dad.
We named the bushes, as we always do, after the winner of the Preakness. Since we had planted two this year, we used the names of the first two finishers. During our dinner in the backyard, we said a toast to Lucky Harlequin, and, appropriately, First Dude.
