Flowers in New Hampshire

Since I returned home I've been busy unpacking, painting rooms to suit my new tastes even as I talk to old friends on the phone, and seeing loved ones. I also took weeklong trip to Ireland to visit my grandmother and attend a writing workshop.

Then I had to face the fact that for a while at least, my travelling is over. Naturally I have mixed feelings about this. It doesn't surprise me that I miss Abu Dhabi since there was so much I loved about living there. In another post I'll discuss what I miss about living in the UAE.

For now I offer two pics of flowers growing in my New Hampshire garden. They certainly were a welcome sight upon our arrival home at the end of June.

In the photo of daisies above, in the distance is a large rock on our front lawn. Young children love to climb on it. They usually stand on the flat parts and sort of pose, as if they are royalty.

Above here is one of the hollyhocks blooming near the mudroom door. They grow to about eight feet tall. They're so sturdy they remind me of Jack and the Beanstalk's bean plants that grow into the clouds.

A Parting Gift

I have a plant that for two years has never bloomed.

But about a week ago, a ball-like orange flower appeared atop the plant's bushy leaves. Like a spray of fireworks in the night sky.

Now there are twelve blooms on this plant.

A parting gift? This is what I'm thinking.

In late June I'll leave this place I love, Abu Dhabi, knowing full well I may never come back and that regardless, life will go on here after I'm gone. At the risk of sounding morbid, it reminds me a little of death: that's how it is for people who know they're not long for this world and are cognizant of the fact that their loved ones will get up the day after their demise. Their favorite people will move on, as they should, despite their absence.

What will happen to my flowers, I ask myself in the middle of the night. The petunias, which have outlasted most in the city, as well as the impatiens, I will toss lest they wither and become an eyesore for my neighbors. The bougainvillea and my cycads tree,"Jameel," (forgive spelling), which is Arabic for "beautiful," will go to my Emirati friend, Manaal (not her real name).

When I see Manaal lately she asks, "How is you jameel?" and I answer, "You mean how is your jameel," and we laugh. Other things, like hair dryers and kettles, I will just give away. I'm no good at garage sales and the like.

It's not all sad and bad, though. As we get closer to our leave date, my mind is full of the smells of home: the beginning of spring, with the air cool and clean and mild after a long winter, which always make me feel a surge of freedom and energy; the evergreen trees around my New Hampshire home; the dark, wet earth in my hands when I dig holes for news plants and move others around for the coming season; the fresh air coming through the window in the morning as I lay in bed or stand at the kitchen sink washing a pot.

I am distracted and unable to concentrate lately. I flit from task to task like a fly. I give away clothes the kids have outgrown, throw away unnecessary papers, and purchase things we cannot get anywhere but here. I trade recipes with ladies from other countries and try to see friends one more time before we go. I attend the children's school activities and shuttle them to social/academic events.

When I see Manaal, I say let's not talk about my imminent departure. This is chiefly because I don't know when and if I will ever see her again. (I have this feeling in general and all the time, that we don't know what tomorrow will bring and if the people we love will be with us/alive next year).

We touch on a variety of subjects, but naturally the conversation returns to my leave date. She stops talking, looks away. Her kohl-outlined eyes are full of water. I look away too, for a moment, and then one of us changes the subject.

Flowers To The Rescue

Outside the front of my villa I've planted four window boxes of pink petunias.

To the right of the front door, the flowers (in photo above), are thriving in the perfect weather of late. These beauties are planted in sand, with a light topping of soil.

When you have a broken arm, it is great to have beautiful flowers to cheer you up. They can distract you from the fact that the orthopedic surgeon continues to mention the possibility of surgery, that he off-handedly says your arm will hurt for three more weeks, and that he only smiles when you ask him if the cast might not really have to stay on for eight weeks.

(I planted all these flowers before I broke my arm.)

Culture Shock Cure: Flowers

When we arrived in Abu Dhabi last July we stayed in a beautiful hotel for 43 days. (Construction on the compound we'd be living in was behind schedule - not unusual here.)

At first I thought I'd died and gone to heaven, the hotel was so luxurious. It had a tranquil, Asian decor with high ceilings and tile floors. But then, of course, we have six children, and some of them are so active or talkative I think they ought to count twice.

Soon hotel living began to wear on me. Usually, the children and I weren't able to get outside until around 4 p.m., due to the strong sun, incredible heat and humidity. Also, Abu Dhabi isn't pedestrian-friendly. People don't walk down the streets here the way they do Madison Avenue, in New York, for example. If they want to stroll they go to the brand-spanking-new malls. They serve as sort of indoor parks.

I was surprised by how off-kilter I felt walking through the Abu Dhabi Mall; it seemed I was the only woman not covered from head to toe in black. At home in New Hampshire my style of dress would be considered conservative; in Abu Dhabi I felt my figure was completely on display. My enthusiasm for our new Middle East adventure was waning. I wasn't able to get a break from the kids on the long days when Michael was working, and we were initially without a car. My spirits dampened.

I did make friends with the hotel concierge, as I was always checking with him as to whether we were disturbing other guests.

"No complaints so far, Mrs. Gunnison," the unflappable Mr. Shibou would reply.

No complaints, that is, until we nearly set the hotel on fire. And broke the air conditioning system..(M and I are good friends with Shibou in spite of it.)

Finally, the day before school began, we moved into our villa. We were all thrilled. We could spread out, find our own corners to get away from each other, maybe make some new friends in the compound. My smile returned. M was relieved.

Then I announced we needed flowers.

M and I headed to the Iranian Souk for plants. The Emirati in the photo here was utterly charming. I declined his offer for coffee or tea and left M to chat with him in his air-conditioned office while I perused the great plant selection.

I picked out large pots of bougainvillea and whatnot quickly. But how to get them home? I didn't want to wait for a delivery...things move slowly in Abu Dhabi. What if they didn't come soon? I needed those flowers to sustain my fragile cheerfulness. I needed them that day.

"Let me see your car," the man said.

M fetched our Toyota minivan. The Emirati took one look at it and sighed, as if to say we had no problem here.

"In this car you can fit two camels," he said.

We bought lots of large plants that day.