This writing appeared recently in the 10th anniversary issue of Holy Titclamps.

One weekend about a year ago I flew to San Francisco to see a dearly beloved friend. He was sick; you could hear it in his voice as he related the misery of chemotherapy or the ravages of the cancer itself or just the various inconveniences of having AIDS in the late 90s. Maybe it was just fear and worry: mortality, the hospital bills, health insurance, rent or being on probation for growing medicinal marijuana. But others who had recently seen him had made the dire observation: " He looks bad ".

Calls to other friends for solace and encouragement turned into hasty plans. Suddenly joining me on the trip would be four of our old friends from - damn, is it ten years already? - the far less complicated days when we were just trying to save the world.

It's a great impromptu reunion. Six more friends - hearing about it - drop everything and drive in from scattered locations in Northern California and Southern Oregon. When I hug the object of our journeys, he feels frail, but a feeling of life like the spring air outside pulses within him. Apprehensive, I wonder if I am just feeling the life running out of him.

We spend a lot of time in the yard of the house. It is large for a city yard and our dear friend - who has over and again, shown us how to scratch and stroke the earth and reap and share the gifts of soil and sun and water from the gardens he has grown - has already made half of it look like a piece of paradise, a nurtured and nurturing oasis. The remaining yard is covered in a thick oppressive carpet of ivy, other invasive and undesirable plants grab hold where they can.

We gather in small groups, laughing, joking, and reminiscing. We are a fortunate group as our dreams and ideals have awarded us dedication and integrity. Far from where we were when we were together, our very diversity and distance unite us now. As we talk, our hands move, we pull weeds, we pull ivy.

Occasionally, a suggestion, a comment or simply silent cooperation brings a group to a larger project. Before the day is done, the hidden bones of the yard emerge, handbuilt terraces, paths and disused sprinkler heads show that this was once someone else's carefully tended garden.

The next day we are energized, we dig and plant and move rocks and soil. We work together in a way we never did in the old days when we were trying to save the world. We are planless and leaderless, yet the work progresses faster than any landscaping project I have ever seen. At the end the yard is rich with beauty and potential. We linger there until we must return to our separate realities. We part with hugs of strength and smiles of promise.

Today that garden is more beautiful than ever. And my cherished friend is still creating wonderful gardens.

Tom Scut lives and gardens in Portland, Oregon.

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