OSPREY HEIGHTS
Topic: - osprey heights
A great green wall of big bushy mock orange flecked with its delicate white crown-like flowers confronted Ferne as she stepped from the car. The heavy heat of the day had loosened clouds of its faint fragance.

Still in the driver’s seat, Myrt wiped her forehead and dabbed her neck with a tissue from her spacious handbag. Then she and Ferne passed through the gap in the hedging. The sight took their breath away. They had walked into a mysterious green maze, like the storybook secret garden -- only real.

The two women were sisters-in-law. Myrt’s husband, who was Ferne’s brother, had passed away many years before. Ferne had some time ago retired as a school principal. Myrt and Ferne were frequent travelling companions, whether on trips to Portugal or Greece, or just puttering around the Beaver Valley dropping in on their numerous relatives. Ferne’s husband Bart was a successful apple farmer who was happy to stick closer to home. Never in their travels had they seen anything quite like this.

The first few yards of the path featured an herb border of thyme, dill, borage, chives, mint, catnip and tall straggly hens and chickens. Opposite the border, an island of spreading pale pink rose bushes.

Beyond the island, a hanging garden surrounded a stone pond stocked with goldfish and leopard frogs. Pink and purple clematis as well as blue and rainbow morning glories discreetly draped the attendant concrete angels. Also in the little recessed roofless green room stood taller plants that would bloom later, like coneflowers and hollyhocks and brown-eyed Susans.

This was Osprey Heights. The enormous scope of its beauty made Ferne feel silly. Myrt had bugged her for some time to visit it. Ferne had dragged her feet.

Osprey Heights was a property neighbouring the old Murdoch family farm in Osprey Township on Blue Mountain. Formerly the site of an abandonned Methodist church, Osprey Heights had been purchased several years ago by two men. They had cleaned up the old church, replaced the broken windows and refitted it as their home.

Then they had worked their magic on the grounds. The garden had become so notable that the owners opened it to the public one afternoon a week from May to September. But Ferne dreaded the thought of going. She couldn't even explain to herself why.

Here was the old church, almost hidden now behind vines and ivy. Low, flat woolly thyme crept across the front steps almost completely obscuring them in green. When she was young, Ferne used to escape down the road with her books to this church, already abandoned, for peace and quiet away from her 11 brothers and sisters. Once her dad had strolled down here to find her and as he stood in the shadowy doorway, a small barn swallow had darted past them and up into the rafters. She must have a nest up there, Dad had said, then added, "Animals and children always know a safe place." The swallows would still feel at home here, hidden behind the thyme and ivy, Ferne thought.

She and Myrt continued to wind their way slowly through thick patches of lavendar, red and yellow potentilla, silvery blue sea holly and galaxies of shasta daisies.

Then Ferne just stopped. The maze had opened out on the vegetable garden. It was planted in diagonal rows to the lines of the paths. The tomatoes and peppers seemed to rise up from a hot frothy sea of orange and yellow poppies.

They sailed through the poppies past walls of scarlet runners, anchored by big beautiful pink and white peonies. Then they came to the rose garden.

It was almost at the eye of the maze, walled off from the rest of the garden by hedge roses in various stages of bud and bloom. Myrt, who to Ferne's surprise seemed to know quite a bit about roses, took it upon herself to give a running commentary: "Queen Victoria. Pink fairy. Cabbage roses. Yellow Lady Banks. Wild roses. Over the arbour, those pink and white ones are New Dawn, lovely fragrance. And this bright red one — Blaze, I think."

For Ferne the names went in one ear and out the other. She was stunned by all the colors — yellow, cream, dark pink, light pink, apricot, coral and cherry red. She found the scents overwhelming. In fact she was suddenly overcome by the feeling that she might throw up. She hunched over and turned white.

Myrt noticed, and helped her over to the bench under the New Dawn roses. "Are you all right?" asked a small man hurrying up to them. He was slender, 50-something and wore dark sunglasses. Another man who looked a lot like the first joined them and held a tall glass of water for Ferne.

"I think so," Myrt answered. "It must be this dreadful heat. Maybe she just needs to sit for a spell."

But the humid July heat rolled the scent of the roses down over her head like a cloth sack. Ferne felt her stomach and throat tighten again. She broke out in a full sweat.

"Let’s get her out back," said the first man. "Lloyd, mind the gate," he instructed. With force that surprised her from a small man, he led Ferne behind the church to a stone patio overlooking the blue hills.

Their host helped Ferne sit down in an ironwork chair. Myrt wheezing soon joined them. She collapsed into the chair beside Ferne. A glass of water was found for her as well.

Osprey Heights sat on the same side of the road as the Murdoch farm. Ferne felt like she'd been here many times before. A stand of ragged tree tops separated the hills from the cloudless sky. Above them Ferne could see a dark soaring bird. Probably just an old crow. She had seen lots of soaring birds up here, but had never known if they were ospreys. It’s not like they ever swooped down right in front of her holding a fish.

"Welcome to Osprey Heights," said their host, bringing her back to earth. "I’m Robert. That's Lloyd. We’re the owners."

"I’m Myrtle Murdoch ," said Myrt taking the extended hand, "and this is my sister-in-law, Ferne Palmer."

"Flower names," noted Robert.

"Murdoch? " he added. "The same Murdoch from up the road?"

"Yes. My husband Harold and Ferne here were brother and sister. They grew up on that farm. It belonged to their mom and dad, Maud and Jim Murdoch. Now her brother Charles Murdoch runs it."

"Let me ask you something," said Robert, leaning forward. "After we bought this place, my father told us an interesting story. His uncle was a circuit minister who probably covered this area. One particular story stood out in his mind. There was a funeral for a boy named Smith, but the family, a large one, was all named Murdoch. Dad thought it might have been this church. Does that sound familiar?"

Ferne was still pale and very quiet. Myrt looked at her friend then said, "Yes, that would have been Burton Smith, Ferne’s half brother. Ferne dear, do you want me to go on with the story?"

Ferne nodded.

"All right. Ferne and Harold’s mother and father both had first marriages. Burton Smith was Gramma’s only child from her first marriage. Grampa had six children from his first. Then came the great flu epidemic of 1918, and their first husband and wife died. Gramma and Grampa married, then had six more children together. Burton was killed when he was run over by a horse drawn land roller."

"A what?"

"One of those big, heavy old-fashioned rollers that was drawn by horses. These outfits were very heavy for flattening the lumpy ground around here. It was an awful tragedy. Burton’s head was crushed."

She patted Ferne’s hand. "How am I doing?"

Ferne managed a faint smile.

"Now I'm only repeating of course what I was told later. But I understand Gramma felt terrible guilt over the whole thing. Burton was thirteen and he had wanted to help out at a neighbour’s place. It was heavy, dangerous work for a youngster. You might allow a teenager to do that kind of thing under family supervision, but not really for a neighbour. Grampa said no. Gramma said she thought it would be all right. After Burton’s death, she became very religious, am I right Ferne?"

"Yes."

"She was very private about her views. She was generous about babysitting whenever her children wanted to go out to a dance or something like that. But she was very strict about her own practices. Whenever she minded the children she had a habit of telling them Bible stories. My own son Everett, who often stayed at the farm, was very influenced by her."

"My father said it would have been a time of year like this -- a very hot summer day," added Robert. "What stood out most about the funeral in his uncle’s mind were the roses. Bright red, deep pink, hazy white. Bushes and climbers. Vases and wreathes full of roses. The air was heavy with the cloying scent of roses."

Ferne heaved visibly. "Are you okay, Ferne?" Robert asked with fresh concern.

She wiped the corners of her mouth with her fingers and said in a low quiet voice, "I was five years old when my brother died. I have never been able to stand the smell of roses."

"Oh, Ferne," was all Myrt could say.

But Ferne seemed lost in thought. She scanned the blue horizon wondering if that osprey would come back again.