Grateful Gardener

Deer graze on wilted flowers
Unafraid of the grateful gardener smiling

Sitting in a room, on a bed, not mine. Surrounded by photos of family also not mine. A disconnected phone decorates a writing desk along with a crucifix and two awards recognizing Margaret Koniz, R.D. I’m writing from Margaret’s window. The window she lay looking out into her neatly groomed yard, at its trees and flowers and four-legged visitors, this last year of her life.

I’m amazed at how one little woman could fill such an enormous house where Mark and I roomed upstairs. Three floors of space not including the basement and attic—that’s a lot of house. She would say, “I love my home, it’s a good home” practically every day and multiple times. She’d sing her alma mater’s song “Alabama” or delightfully express her distaste for something by chiming “You can have it, I don’t want it, Its not the thing for me . . . “ Every corner of the house seemed to warm with her presence. She was perpetually happy and good spirited even at the end when she was in pain. Margaret was sunshine.

I moved into her home with some trepidation. Margaret’s daughter, Mary, was a colleague at the CIA. Before I left for Budapest, Mary overheard me saying that I needed a place to live when I returned six months later. She volunteered Margaret’s home saying there was lots of space and the company would be welcome by Margaret who was suffering at times from dementia. I balked because I like privacy and did not think I was much of a caregiver. But the following January I moved in nonetheless to the corner room on the second floor. Mark joined me a few months later.

Mark and I grew close to Margaret and when we left for a 4-week road trip, Margaret asked that we not forget her. How could we? We sent her postcards from the various states we traveled through and when we returned August 1, we resumed the routine of returning home to her cheerful greeting, “Well hello there. Have a seat.,” then dinner and sitting on the porch. As the holidays neared, we began looking forward to the famous Koniz Christmas party when friends, neighbors, and family would sing Christmas carols all evening before Margaret would read “The Night Before Christmas” in front of the fire. Margaret, however, changed becoming still and eating less. Her old nemesis, cancer, had returned.

Margaret made it to Christmas and into the New Year. The Koniz Christmas party was everything we had been told and more. There was dancing, children playing with puppies, and the house was filled with music. Faces from photos came to life and drew us into their circle as if we belonged. For the first time, Margaret could not read so the family read together. A few weeks later, she was in the hospital. When nothing more could be done for her, Margaret returned to her beloved home to say her final goodbye. Family gathered and Mark and I were invited to stay as part of the family. Her vigil was all that you might imagine for a woman like Margaret—family singing, laughing, holding her hand. For the first time in Mark and my life, we saw a person we love take their last breath. And then we cooked for the family.

The services reflected the Margaret we knew and shed light on the Margaret we never met. She was an accomplished, intelligent professional and remarkable in her influence on others and her community. Margaret seemed to have a magical influence even in death. Her children are so different from one another it is hard to believe they are from the same womb. We were amazed that they and extended family, old friends, and even ex-wives could peacefully, even merrily, be in one room. At her wake, they celebrated in the spirit of Margaret by singing, dancing (yes, it’s true!) and telling stories that captured the lightness of Margaret. What is it to be the kind of person who draws the very best out of everyone even in times of sorrow?

Mark and I have remained in Margaret’s home temporarily—while plans for her estate are being settled among her children. The house feels lonely without her. Sitting on her bed, though, I’m warmed by her memory and feel so fortunate to have been invited to stay in her home. For a woman who loved flowers but lacked a green thumb, she cultivated beauty in other ways and inevitably grew in me the ability to nurture a stranger. I’m glad that I overcame my hesitation to share my life and space with someone, and equally grateful to have been welcomed in by a truly magnificent woman, and her family. I am forever changed and grateful for it.