My childhood home had an interesting array of neighbors--the elderly couple who didn’t use electricity on Sundays and put ketchup on their eggs, the mysterious recluse with a house that was surely haunted, the professional couple who had meticulously tended roses rather than children, and the family with teens, tire swings and a broken down truck. But the place where I spent the bulk of my not-at-my-house time was the Romaldos--with their sprawling, ever-changing room assignment and their jungle of a yard ready for adven
ture. I can see now that what I considered a thrilling rejection of the mundane was actually the best efforts of a frazzled single mom working full-time and raising six kids younger than twelve. I’m sure most people saw the chaos (and undoubtedly commented on it in coffee klatch whispers), but, coming as I did from the land of order and conformity, the utter mayhem was hypnotic. And my favorite part was that backyard. It had once been the object of attention--covered patio, koi pond, stone waterfall, landscaped lawn--but by the time I got to it, all of that was covered by weeds, vines, dirt and, prolifically, eucalyptus leaves. Recently I caught the scent of eucalyptus and, as invariably happens, I was instantly transported back to when I was bold and brave and wild. In Deborah Hopkins’ A Packet of Seeds, the lonely main character can’t settle into her new life until she resurrects some of the scents of the old. I know how she feels.http://www.amazon.com/Packet-Seeds-Deborah-Hopkinson/dp/0060090898
http://www.deborahhopkinson.com/
