Forget what we’re told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that’s bursting into life…
~Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol
Not too long before this writing, I was sitting at a nice bar in a nice restaurant with two friends from college I hadn’t seen in decades. We were catching up on time passed and things done when in walked the fourth member of our party. His entrance added more to the excitement; he was the one who organized the reunion, and also the one who traveled the farthest (cross-country) to be there. But what also caught and held our attention was his mustache.
Mind you, my friend’s mustache was a surprising and a glorious addition to a long and lean face that has aged well. To my wizened and wrinkled eyes, he looked much the same as the first time I met him the first week of our freshman year in 1983. Back then, and for long after when we were in regular contact, I never knew him to sport any excessive facial hair, save for connecting eyebrows courageously kept together long before the world ever heard of Anthony Davis. So you can imagine that after enthusiastic greetings and hugs and slaps on the back, I, as well as the others, inquired about the mustache. Basically, we wanted to know when, why and how?
Answers came after we settled down to a table to dine. According to my friend, the “when” was right before the Covid 19 pandemic, the “why” was to present a memorable look for a new driver’s license photo, and the “how” was a mix of nurture and nature; meaning he stopped shaving over his upper lip and waited, with fortitude in the face of family chiding, as the whiskers sprouted and spread into the shape we now admired over a plate of sushi. And not only us, but our waiter that evening, also mustached, congratulated my friend on the look, even bringing us a complimentary appetizer in the spirit of follicle fellowship.
As we continued as a foursome to reminisce and to discuss our lives, I shared that much of my free time of late was devoted to landscaping my modest property: cultivating garden beds holding early-sprouting hyacinth, daffodil, crocus and iris, and newly planting, and/or moving and replanting, hydrangea, rhododendron, lilac, boxwood and roses. “Only perennials,” I concluded, noticing their eyes glazing over after I had ticked off a litany of other yearly-returning flowers and flowering shrubs. Eager to break the spell I had created, I pointed at my friend and added: “Like his mustache. It’s been beneath the surface all his life. It just needed the right conditions to come out. Now it’s in full bloom. In perfect harmony with his nose and mouth.”
I was glad they laughed. But often, things said in jest hold deeper meaning. And as our night continued, and still thinking a bit about my yard, I began to connect these men, metaphorically, to perennials. For instance, perennials have larger, more established, and much deeper root systems than annuals, which only survive for one growing season. Each of my friends had also “dug into” life: they were all longtime homeowners and respected residents of their communities, fathers of popular children who attended local schools and had moved on (or were moving toward) to college and rewarding jobs after. They also had lengthy and successful careers with solid, thriving companies, a network of friends, and volunteer relationships with many helping organizations. Moreover, they were happily married; they spoke of their wives as wonderful partners, teammates, best friends. They also kept tight with extended family, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, cousins and in-laws. And they openly discussed the pain of losing a parent, as all of us at that table had experienced. But each story indicated devotion to a mom or dad, to a lasting love, to involvement at the highest level. Their “root system,” as clear to me, was strong, vibrant and far-reaching.
But there was more. I thought about the choice to plant perennials, how in many ways it’s a choice to place faith in nature; that rather than purchase an already maturing flat of tulips, you place under soil, most optimally the Fall, a bulb akin in shape and size to a small stone. And from that point on, Spring after Spring, this unremarkable looking seed, like magic, gives beauty and color to a warming world.
I recognized this type of faith in the way my friends described raising their children: with unconditional love and selfless support, but also with acceptance and encouragement and the freedom for them to grow into their own interests, to be who they want to be. Like the gardener who trusts the bulb to bloom, they trusted their children to reach their full potential. And they have.
The more I thought on this, days and weeks after our reunion, the more I liked the idea of unearthing (pun intended) characteristics of people who plant perennials. In fact, I have started to make a list of what I consider constitutes a “Perennial Man.”
Here’s ten I have came up with so far:
A Perennial Man:
- Is content, but eager for more;
- Plans for the future, but does not try to control the present or dwell in the past;
- Expects good things to happen for him;
- Expects good things to happen for those he loves;
- Is patient when his favorite sports team is in a rebuilding process;
- Keeps care of his health, exercises and stays fit, but does not obsess over it;
- Is smart with his money, not stingy or greedy, but always has reserve if needed;
- Is a good listener;
- Helps people, does favors, without ever expecting return; and
- Never returns a gift.
Oh, a perennial man also takes life seriously, but not himself. They might even, say, for a laugh or a lark, grow a mustache for a driver’s license photo. Mine’s scheduled for next year. Time to ditch the razor.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock