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Almost one year ago to the day, I published the following blog post:

 

June 13, 2013….

My Mother lives in a lovely little retirement villa.

You must be 55 years of age to live here.

No kids.

Needless to say, it’s a very quiet place.

Every now and again, I like to come for a visit.

To keep busy, I might go downstairs and check to see if the mail has arrived.

Or, I could go across the way to the drugstore to see if anything new has arrived since my visit there yesterday.

There’s the cutest little laundry room less than twenty paces from Mother’s door. I can do two loads of laundry there in about thirty-five minutes. It takes me twice as long to do the same amount at home.

However, this afternoon, I checked out their little community garden which can be found in a small sunny corner off to the side.

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Each allotted garden plot is about a square meter… a tiny bite sized bit of dirt, just the right amount to grow a few tomatoes with a sweet radish patch on the side.

I certainly hope that in the coming years that I will be so well motivated…

This garden even comes with a side order of a hummingbird feeder and two whitewashed wooden benches that squeal with delight every time you sit down on them.

And if that’s not enough, there is a small library in a separate room just after the entrance and before you reach the elevator.

All books are donated and some obviously well used…

…and every time I pass this room, I can hear these books calling out to me, but I somehow find the strength to leave them be.

These books belong where they are, among those who have had the good fortune to find themselves at a point in their lives when undulating quiet time is the norm of the day…

…and the daily arrival of the mailman is still a precious thing.

 

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