Those who know me well, know that my father and I had a special relationship with one another. Nothing fancy. We were just best friends. I not only idolized this gentle and humble man, but I also did everything I could to emulate him from learning how to bait a hook to throwing a mean curveball. After all, as the youngest of his three children, I was not only my father's daughter, I was my father's only "son," a well-earned distinction I refused to relinquish even as an adult.

But, I've been thinking of my mother a great deal lately. That strikes me as a bit unusual. Not that I didn't love my mother; I adored her. But my father and I were "joined at the hip" from the start. Friends and relatives would always remark to me that "You are just like your dad." I don't recall anyone commenting the same about my mother and me. I certainly didn't favor her in looks, mannerisms, or habits.

Maybe it's because it's August.

My mother hated August. She had her reasons: oppressive heat, tar, and those little vinegar bugs. August heat in Saginaw during the 1960s, without the benefit of central air-conditioning, "sucks the life out of me," she was heard to say more than once. The heat, coupled with the tar that inevitably accompanied the scuffed soles of my father's Red Wing work boots and ended up on her kitchen's linoleum floor, put her into a scrubbing tailspin. Add those gnatty little bugs that seemingly appeared overnight in droves on her immaculate kitchen counter as they masticated hungrily on unrefrigerated fruit, and August was doomed to become a cleaning frenzy that reeked of cider vinegar, bleach, and Murphy's Oil soap.

I always thought those reasons were a bit harsh and vitriolic to hold against the last languishing month of a child's summer vacation, especially when I was involuntarily enlisted to be part of the cleaning crew.

However, my mother loved the flowers of August. In particular, she cherished lisianthus. Wild and wooly bouquets of the delicate pastel blue, pink, and cream beauties always graced her kitchen table in August. Although I have no luck growing them myself, they grace mine as well. In fact, each trip I have made this month to the local farmers' market has found me toting a sturdy bucket filled with water. I take every precaution that treasured bouquets of lisianthus, statice, and sunflowers will not wilt as they make their journey home with me.

In spite of Saginaw's scorching sun-drenched Augusts, my mother found the time and energy to walk in her garden in the early morning hours or just as dusk was about to fall. And that is where my memory has taken me these past few days as the heat of August once again makes its appearance, and no amount of cider vinegar, bleach, or Murphy's Oil soap lessens the pesky flying bug population in my own kitchen.

My mother's garden was not confined to a small plot of land behind the garage. The entire yard was her palette - a treasure trove of hardy perennials, trees, and shrubs that was filled with ruts and paths that began somewhere and seemingly ended nowhere. There was nothing formal or ordered about it. But along the way, she knew exactly where she was going, where she could step, and where she could dare stop and inhale the beauty surrounding her.

When the debilitating effects of age and arthritis took their inevitable toll on her, she still ventured out into her garden, albeit, using a walker. While others may have thought she should stay put in her recliner and become resigned to her situation, my mother had other ideas. Arthritic knees could not dissuade her. No, much to the chagrin and strident exasperation of those in charge, my mother could be found outside in August, ever so slowly making her way through the world she loved and knew best.

Yes, this past week, as I have been recuperating from knee surgery that was more intense and invasive than my surgeon or I anticipated, my thoughts have turned to my mother. Constant pain was her daily companion, in spite of having her pelvis repaired and her right knee and hip replaced. Through each procedure, her stubborn Scottish temperament shone. Never was her sense of humor and resolve more apparent than when she proclaimed afterwards to the surgeon who repaired her hip that "I am not going to bake you a pie for this." She fought valiantly, refusing to succumb to the inevitable. But when Parkinson's and dementia further compromised her health, witnessing her suffering was agonizing to behold. While I did all that was in my power to make her last years comfortable and fulfilling, I often wonder if I could have done more.

My pain has been nothing in comparison. My care has been superb. My prognosis is excellent. I have felt and experienced kindness and genuine love from neighbors, friends, and most of all, my family. For the past five days, I have been a model patient. I have taken my prescribed medications and performed some rather painful rehabilitative exercises. I've been compliant and have faithfully used my crutches as I have hobbled from one room to another. Each day I have felt a little stronger and a little more confident.

But along the way, I have also felt discontented and have yearned to be somewhere else. Along the way, I, too, have felt a need to venture outside the safety of my recliner.

And so, early this morning, left on my own for the first time since my surgery five days ago, I opened my front door and stepped outside.

I smiled as I tentatively balanced myself on one crutch and eased myself down the steps to the uneven brick path that greets visitors to our home.

Ever so slowly, I made my way to the driveway.

And there I stopped; I had gone far enough for one day.

But from where I stood, I could view my entire front yard. My yard that is one huge garden. My yard that is a riot of perennials, trees, and shrubs with paths that seemingly begin somewhere and end nowhere. A palette of beauty even in the waning days of summer's dance.

Hydrangeas needed watering, phlox looked a bit droopy, and some of my geraniums and daisies begged for my attention. But all would survive, of that I was certain.

I lingered for a few moments longer, inhaling the beauty that surrounded me. Slowly, I retraced my steps. Tomorrow, I would return, and perhaps I would venture even further into my August garden.

After all, I am, indeed, my mother's daughter...