Another quiet evening on the porch. Melancholy with the news of the death of an old friend and gardener.

We were college buddies, quiet and a bit geeky. Lots of hideaway suppers at the Clemson House dining hall. We sat by those wall-sized, mid-century modern plate glass windows, Outside, bare white oaks, slowly turning from peeling white to black silhouettes. Warm orange, mauve and yellow sunsets over the hills of campus.

Rachel and I had big conversations, how to change the world. Then, oh forget the world, how to ignore it and keep being ourselves. How to eat right, she even roped me into aerobics for a while.

For twenty years, we were in contact through letters, later email, then facebook. I miss the possibility of spending another night in her big old house. I’ve lost someone who could edit my writing, without changing my voice. Jenks, but it’s ridiculous. Just ridiculous. You read lots of books, newspapers, letters, why don’t you just pay attention? Just learn as you read.

She’d be exasperated, amused, confounded and so, so sure I’d do better. But twenty years later she wrote, Some things never change. One of those things is my love for you. Another of those things is that you still can’t spell. But more important is that I love you in spite of your imperfections.

I just read a paper letter from her. She refers to someone who broke out in a delighted smile. I have a delighted smile now, Rachel, but it’s tight and holding back tears.

Rachel was a horticulturist at Milliken & Company, later at Gunter Gardens, both places where employees, guests and casual visitors enjoyed her plants and her smiles. I don’t recall her favorite plants, but the things in flower now I’ll commit to memory and think of Rachel Ruff.

Orange poppies all curled up tight by dusk, burgundy lilies popping through
Breezy African love grass and blood striped crinum lilies
Blue cornflowers, purple larkspur and tan, drying-as-it-stands-in-the-field oats.
Lime leaves of a weeping willow with orange trumpet vine draping through.

All in flower, just off the porch. In honor of Rachel Ruff, I asked the best editor I know to edit these words.