Ilze Berzins

I’ve moved on.

No longer am I obsessed about what this realtor or that realtor thought about my little dream house.

With a bit of soft spring rain, the lilacs will be ready to burst into bloom. Already, timid little green ears appear on scraggly branches, (yes, there’s that word again) and the tall skinny crabapple tree in the back yard is stirring with fresh greenery. The one in the front garden is waiting a bit; early May is its season of splendour.

Will I still be here to see this wonder?

I mean, I’m not going to die or anything, but will my dream house be sold by then?

Who knows.

Right now I focus on beauty. Soon there will be clusters of Siberian iris and Oriental poppies and lush peonies creating a Monet-like garden that any artist would love to paint — not to speak of the fragrant lily-of-the-valley, the violets, the primrose, and daffodils, tulips and various other little buds whose names escape me at the moment.

A bit later will come the clematis and the bushy roses. Then, of course, the fall flowers.

But that is such a long way away.

I bought this property seven years ago from Judy Faulkner because I loved the garden. Judy did make a brief visit on Saturday but has declined my invitation to say hi. She’s very successful and very attractive with her pale algemarine outfit and calling card matching her pretty blue eyes. Apparently she’s too big to acknowledge a Scragsville seller already (even though this is her area, by all accounts).

Thinking back: I did call Judy seven years ago to check on a moving-in date. No response. She had bagged her 5%.

 End of story.

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