We purchased our house in 1999 after many years of apartment living. It was a great big scary thing to do, and still scares me every day. It was less than six months after we moved in that SW was diagnosed with Autism. Considering what that’s done to our finances, had he been diagnosed first we never would have purchased the house. In a way it was a blessing that the purchase came first, at least we got into a home. Since then it’s been a scramble just to keep it, and to try and keep it from falling apart.

It’s not a wonderful, unique special house. It’s a quite ordinary house in a quite ordinary suburban neighborhood. The street is a cul-de-sac, the neighbors mow their lawns, set up swing sets and trampolines, walk their dogs on the sidewalks, the kids play basketball, ride their bikes, toss baseballs and footballs and occasionally get in fights. It’s so ordinary that at least 75% of the houses around here have the same floor plan as mine. They couldn’t get creative with the street names either: there are no less than five streets with the same name as the one I live on with variations of Drive, Court, Circle and Lane attached to the end and preceded by a W or a S or nothing at all. I’m sure it drives the post office nuts; I know it does me as often as I get someone else’s mail.

But despite how boring and mundane it all is, it’s still our house. We have our very own weedy yard, trees desperate for pruning, driveway with cracks in the concrete, garage always needing a cleaning, wiring that does funny things and plumbing that does stranger things yet. It’s all ours. I can paint the inside and outside whatever color I want, make all the noise I do or do not want, and plant anything I want.

Not that I have the time or the funds for major decorating and landscaping, that’s just never been possible. SW requires a lot of time, and TR and RM deserve their fair share of attention too. We had to scale back to one income and that leaves us constantly on the edge of disaster. But every little thing we have managed to do is quite dear and precious to me.

So this long wordy ramble has been background to lead up to one of my favorite things around here. That first summer here we planted a Lilac bush right outside the bedroom window. I’ve loved lilacs since I was a little girl and a dear sweet neighbor had rows and rows of them. I didn’t know what all I would do with my house, but I knew I’d plant a lilac.

It was a little scrawny thing when we first brought hit home, barely standing a foot above its little half gallon sized plastic bucket. But after about three years it really began to take off, grow and bloom like a champion. It’s about 7 feet tall now and has spread out all across the back of the house. Two years ago it suffered a horrible injury when a window AC unit fell out and crashed right in the middle of it. But with a bit of careful pruning and lots of love it recovered nicely. It’s a bit oddly shaped now, with a hollow place in the middle above the main stem, but it has thrived never the less, all the more beautiful for it’s unique character.

So every year as spring rolls around I look forward to the days with my bedroom window open. I watch the progress of the buds on my wonderful lilac bush daily, waiting for the very first flowers to pop open, and then waiting for the full explosion of blooms and the fragrance that comes too. The whole experience of having this lilac bush is a special thing to me: the anticipation of the first blooms, the enjoyment when it reaches it’s full blossom, and the little bit of sadness when the flowers fade, but the comfort of knowing that next year it will all come back.

Here are the beautiful buds, poised to put on the display!