Gardenia's Garden: Trusting in God's Path

By D. D. Simpson

When a handsome, smooth-talking college student asked my sixteen-year-old mother to be his wife, she gave little consideration to the longterm consequences of accepting such a proposal. So, with little introspection given to whether or not she was ready, and even less toward her suitor, my mom blindly accepted. It didn't take long after the ceremony for her eyes to open, and realize she'd married an abusive drunk, aka my father.

It was after a night of self-indulgence when my dad came home one Sunday morning and knocked in the front door. After another ugly fight with Mom, he left to buy a bottle of tequila and never came back.

Unlike my father, my mother never gave up. She worked day and night, doing whatever necessary to keep a roof over her family's head and food on the table. I doubt the bright-eye gullible teen-bride thought as she said the words," I do" that her life would turn out the way it had.

At a very young age, I promised myself when it was my time to marry that I would be patient and learn from my mother's misfortune. Sadly, however, it was a promise I wasn't able to keep. Instead, in the blink of an eye, I found myself going down the same broken dirt road my mother once traveled.

It was years later, when I found myself sitting on a moonlit beach in Corpus Christi, Texas, that I began questioning my very existence. My life had taken many twists, turns, and unfortunate events for me to be where I was that evening. I hadn't gone there with any intent, but seeing the tranquil waters of the Gulf, a thought came to me. What if I swam as fast as I could toward the horizon until I couldn't go any further? All my troubles would sink to the bottom, and my worries would be no more.

I wondered if this was the answer to life's problems, or did God still have another path left for me to travel?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781648016585

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Gardenia's Garden: Trusting in God's Path

D. D. Simpson

Copyright © 2020 D.D. Simpson

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64801-657-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64801-658-5 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

The Cowboy

Mi Pulga

Keyhano vs. Muñoz

Fernando

Baudi

The Swine

The Bank Heist

The Orphanage

Mea Culpa

The Letter

Mi Dante’s Inferno

The Healing

The Texas Treasure

Day of Rest

My Visit

Null and Void

Survival Mode

Wazka

Justice

Leap of Faith

Life in Texas

Florida

Work, Work, Work

Irreconcilable Differences

Milagros

To Gardenia, Tesorita, and Perrito,

TE AMO

Foreword

Super Bowl Sundays were always a special day for me—so special that my best friend and I never missed a game. It didn’t matter who was playing, year in, year out. I knew no matter what, we’d be together. Neither of us believed in Super Bowl parties. It was him, me, and the game. That was it, and it was beautiful. No girls around to question what offsides meant or some scarf-wearing yuppie nursing his wine cooler in the corner asking if there was any more guacamole. Just football.

However, things were going to be different this year. For the first time, the seat to my left would be empty. A few months earlier, my best friend lost his battle with the Big C. There are few friends in life who you can call in the middle of the night without upsetting—Jim was one. I knew about the skeletons in his closet, and he knew about the bodies in mine. If I asked to borrow a C-note, he’d give me two and then say, I’m sure I forgot your birthday, so here you go. When I finally started making a few bucks in my life, I made myself a promise—my buddy would never pick up another dinner check, bar tab, or cab ride while we were together. I rode him long enough, and now, it was time for him to sit back. Sadly, the ride wasn’t as long as either of us would have liked.

The big game was a few days away when the owner of the golf course gave me a call to ask if I’d play in his Super Bowl outing. There was no way I was spending the first Super Bowl after Jim’s death playing golf and then going to an after-party to watch the game. I knew the first time I heard someone say guacamole, there’d be a good chance I’d hit ’em. So my answer was no.

After explaining to Pierre the reason behind my no-show, he gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He told me to come and play golf, at no charge, and then leave right afterward. Since free golf in South Florida is more coveted than the early bird special at Flakowitz, I agreed.

After finishing the round, I went into the restaurant part of the clubhouse to drop off my team’s scorecard. I desperately wanted to vacate the premise before someone caught my ear and started asking me for free golf tips or, worse, started giving them to me. I saw the owner/waitress of the restaurant, Claudia. I knew her and her husband since they took over the eatery a few years earlier. I always liked the feisty hostess and the way she ran her business. She wasn’t one to put up with too much crap from the perpetually demanding senior citizens of Delray Beach. Although she was originally from Colombia, she reminded me a lot of some of the waitresses I knew back home in New York—pretty on the outside, but tough as nails on the inside.

When I went to hand Claudia my scorecard, I quickly realized it wasn’t her. I didn’t need a gold shield from some detective squad to figure out the girl in front of me had to be her sister. I introduced myself and began finding out more about the sibling I never knew existed.

The girl’s name was Diana. I could tell she was nervous, not with me, but seeing her on the other side of the counter, she looked like she’d rather be somewhere else. I was guessing from her fit body that she’d be more comfortable in a gym than a restaurant.

Diana was tall like Claudia. Both sisters had the same long wavy brown hair and golden tone skin. Physically, they could pass as twins. However, personality-wise, they were as opposite as could be. Diana was more reserved, even a little shy. That made talking with her all the more pleasurable. She didn’t possess any of the superficial traits I’d come to despise with many of the women who lived in my new hometown of Boca Raton. She was genuine. Her smile was soft and her eyes filled with warmth. The more we talked, the more I wanted to know more about the bonita (beautiful) girl in the funny flowered apron.

I never did make it home for the game that night. I sat at the counter sipping from my Zephyrhills bottle of spring water while everyone else was in the next room, cheering at the big screen. Occasionally, the pretty brunette from Bogota would stop by and keep me company. I thought this year’s Super Bowl was going to be the worst. It turned out to be the best.

Diana and I were dating for a few weeks when she invited me to her fitness club to participate in a class she was instructing. I won’t lie. I was a little nervous. I was in okay shape, but this girl was in Xena: Princess Warrior shape. I was relieved when I entered the aerobics room to see it crowded. I figured it would be easier for me to hide. I made my way to a spot in the back right corner and waited for the class to start. When it did, an amazing thing happened. The gentle girl with the soft smile turned into an intense drill sergeant. Her energy level was off the charts, and the people loved it. She was giving everything she had, and in turn, the group followed suit. To this day, it was the most exhilarating class I ever experienced.

I often think back upon that Super Bowl Sunday with a scary thought, What if I didn’t go? But thank God I did. I met my future wife and best friend. I know Jim pulled some strings for me upstairs to get these two paths to intersect, and for that, I say to my buddy, Thanks, I owe you.

A year after meeting Diana, I bought a new boat and named it after her, Mi Bonita.

Milagros

Acknowledgments

To Lynn and Despina, thank you for all your help. Your patience and kindness have been a blessing to our family.

Chapter 1

The Cowboy

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding, in all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths.

—Proverbs 3:5–6 (NIV)

There are some memories, regardless of the number of years that have passed, one never forgets. My first indelible mark in life came at the age of nine when my mom woke me in the middle of the night, telling me to get dressed and meet her by the front door.

My mother, nicknamed Gardenia after her favorite flower, was a serious person, not by choice mind you, but by necessity. Before she turned twenty, the woman with the long wavy dark hair and hands of stone had the sole responsibility of raising two daughters and all the challenges that came along with such a burden. So it was understandable that Gardenia’s priority wasn’t about being a best friend to my sister and me; it was about survival. That’s why when she instructed one of her daughters to do something, we did it—no questions asked, no explanations given.

My sister Claudia, along with my mother and I, lived on the fifth floor of a drafty six-unit cinder block apartment house in one of the poorer sections of Bogota. On occasion, my father, Baudi—yet another nickname—would visit; but this was a rare occurrence followed by drinking, swearing, and arguing over money with Gardenia. The arguing wasn’t my mother asking him for help, but rather, my father wanting any cash in the house so he could go to the local cantina and indulge in his favorite tequila.

Claudia, my older sister by eleven months, was given the nickname Tesorita, meaning treasure, after she nearly died when she was ten. She was doubled over in pain when my mother brought her to the clinic. The doctors ignored my sister’s screams, thinking it had something to do with female cramps. Of course, Gardenia knew better. Finally, after two hours, my mom grabbed one of the doctors walking by, fell to her knees, began clutching at his pant legs, and begged for him to see her daughter. The doctor agreed under one condition: she had to let go of him.

The physician took one look at my sister and realized the previous attendant had misdiagnosed her. He suspected her appendix had burst and abruptly rushed her into the operating room.

During the procedure, my mother prayed aloud. She begged God to afflict her and not her Tesorita.

The doctor was able to save my sister’s life and, in many ways, saved mine. I couldn’t imagine life without my best friend, without my Tesorita.

After the operation, my sister would stay in the hospital for several more days. During that time, I took over Claudia’s responsibilities and, in the process, gained a much better appreciation for how much my older sibling did to help my mother around the house.

Most people may not know the precise moment when they stopped being a child. For many, it’s a gradual progression from adolescence to adulthood. Maybe there’s that first kiss, cigarette, or drink to look back on as their initial step out of innocence. My step would be less subtle.

It was the second night of Tesorita’s stay in the hospital when Gardenia summoned me for that late-night trip to her garden. I dressed and then met her by the front door, as she instructed. My mother was waiting there fully dressed and wearing her black rubber boots. She handed me an empty potato sack bag and told me in a soft voice, We’re going to my garden tonight. I need for you to be as quiet as a mouse. Do you understand?

Still half asleep, I wiped my bleary eyes, nodded my head, and followed her out the front door.

The damp air on this moonless night seeped right through my sheep wool poncho. The chill helped wake me up, but now my bones were frozen, and my mind was racing. Something didn’t make sense. My mother never mentioned having a garden and certainly never previously offered to take me there. So why then in the middle of the night was she sharing this with me? I started worrying whether all the stress of watching my sister nearly die had finally caught up with my mother.

Gardenia was only two feet in front of me, but due to the pitch-dark evening, if it wasn’t for the piece of rope she tethered to my wrist and her belt, I’m sure I would’ve lost her. How she could see where she was going was a mystery to me.

It had to be at least forty or fifty minutes into the walk before Gardenia finally stopped. She reminded me to be quiet and to put anything she handed me in the sack. We then walked off the road and into some high grass. Because it was so dark, I was unable to see the first item she was passing to me but could feel it was a head of lettuce. We walked a little further, and she began handing me some carrots and later string beans. On another farm, Gardenia was passing me something so small that I couldn’t make out what it was. She then held one up toward my mouth for me to try; it was a strawberry.

Unknown to me at the time, my mother would wake my sister in the middle of the night twice a week to go collect our groceries, or as some of the locals called it night farming.

Before that evening, I never questioned how the food magically appeared on our table. But as the two of us made our way from farm to farm, it was clear that there was nothing my mother wouldn’t do to provide for her family.

The potato sack was nearly full when the stranger appeared from nowhere. From the outline of his silhouette, I could tell he was tall and wore a cowboy hat. In a whispery voice, he said to Gardenia, So you’re the one poaching my farm at night. And here I thought I had a rabbit problem. He then leaned over and whispered something I couldn’t hear into my mother’s ear. Gardenia untied the rope from her belt, untethering the two of us, and then gestured by putting up her hand for me to stay. As she walked away with the cowboy, I remained there alone in the middle of the darkened field, more scared than I’d ever been in my entire young life. Gardenia was only gone a few minutes, but for me, it felt more like an eternity. She came back alone and without saying a word began emptying half the contents from the sack. After she finished, we started our walk home.

We weren’t walking long when I finally built up the courage to ask Gardenia if she was okay. She stopped, patted me on the top of my head, and told me everything was fine.

Having built up the courage to ask one question, I decided to push my luck with another. Mom, was that the owner of the farm?

With no sign of distress in her voice, she calmly replied, Yes, it was.

Was he a good man?

Without any deviation in her tone, she said, No, Diana, he wasn’t a good man. She paused and then added, He was an evil man.

The two of us never spoke of that night again. I never asked Gardenia why we had to empty half the contents from the bag or where she went with the mean cowboy. I figured some things in life were better left unsaid.

Claudia, who Gardenia forever called Tesorita after returning home from the hospital, took many more months to recover from her near-death experience. During that time, I continued to make the late-night runs with Gardenia to collect the fruits and vegetables from her garden. I can’t be sure, but I don’t think we ever returned to that cowboy’s farm again.

Looking back, I think I was a well-behaved child. But after those middle-of-the-night trips to the farms, I tried to be more than good; I tried to be an adult. I tried everything in my power to be perfect and, in the process, make life easier for Gardenia.

I never again complained of the daily potato soup for breakfast or the jumble vegetable soup with the occasional chicken or pork for dinner. For now on, I considered every meal a blessing. The luxury of complaining, along with my adolescence, was officially over.

Chapter 2

Mi Pulga

Children, obey your parents in everything, for this pleases the Lord.

—Colossians 3:20 (NIV)

My maternal grandfather was a drunk and my grandmother, Diana, my namesake, a strict disciplinarian. Mom had two sisters and a baby brother. When the boy was no more than a few months old, my grandmother put him in the kitchen sink to bathe. According to the story, she turned her back for a second to get the soap when Freddie climbed out of the makeshift tub and fell to the floor, suffering permanent brain damage. The doctors informed my grandmother that the boy would live no more than a year; Freddie died when he was fifteen.

However, the cause of Freddie’s death was not due to his disability. Similar to his fall from the counter, it was a sudden, tragic occurrence, along with a mistake by one of his parents that ended Freddie’s life.

My grandmother homeschooled Freddie and, considering the circumstances, did a remarkable job. But at the end of the day, Freddie was childlike, and because of the permanent damage suffered, he would remain that way. Knowing this, my grandfather would always—well, almost always—safeguard his firearm as soon as he came home from his armed security job. All it took was one time to forget for a tragedy to occur.

Freddie saw the firearm sitting on the counter and became curious. With one pull of the trigger, his body now lay lifeless on the same floor that changed the course of his life years earlier.

One more dark cloud in a sky filled with so many for Gardenia’s side of the family.

After Freddie’s death, the Keyhano home became unbearable for my mom. So at sixteen, Gardenia did what most young women did back then that wanted to escape their situation—she married. But like most who make such rash decisions, Gardenia soon realized she replaced one bad situation for a worse, one abusive drunk for another.

My father, Baudi (bou-dee), nicknamed after his favorite tequila, struggled most of his life over the battle with the bottle. He was a smart man, but an absent father and certainly not a good husband. The answer to why she didn’t divorce him was as clear as the vows she took on her wedding day, Till death do us part and For better or worse. She swore these words to God and stayed true to them throughout her life. As for me, I think God would’ve forgiven Gardenia if she had left him. However, this wasn’t my decision to make; it was hers. All I knew was that I wouldn’t make the same mistake she had when it came to choosing a partner, or at least I prayed I wouldn’t.

Maybe it’s not fair to make generalizations, but there were two that I believed from a very young age—the women in Colombia worked too hard, while the men drank too much.

Gardenia was no exception. Mom worked till exhaustion. Always looking for ways to earn an income, she’d clean rooms, cook, sew, or do anything else needed to meet her monthly expenses. However, her greatest financial success was as a dollmaker. She’d make the dolls in bulk and then sell them to several of the children’s stores throughout the city. The product making took her about thirty minutes for each one. The time-consuming part was the arduous trip downtown to purchase all the supplies.

Once every two weeks, the three of us—Gardenia, Tesorita, and I—would take the three-hour round-trip bus ride to La Chucua (chew-ka) to collect the materials needed to make the dolls. I was always the one responsible for carrying the roll of cotton. The package didn’t weigh a lot, but the size made it a bit awkward to handle. The bundle stood nearly four feet high and was as round as a chubby child. After picking up all the supplies, we would head back to the bus stop.

If one has never experienced the bus system in Bogota and was thinking of taking a trip to our city to partake in this lovely experience, don’t; it’s awful! Some of the male occupants have difficulty keeping their hands off other people’s belongings, including women’s butts. They love stealing so much that they consider it a sport. The more sophisticated thieves do it without the victims knowing, whereas the smash and grab type would tear a woman’s earrings clear off, leaving the unfortunate casualty bleeding and screaming in pain. Because of this, my mother would never wear any jewelry when taking the bus and used an old purse filled with small rocks as a decoy.

Still too young to attract the attention of these punks, my only issue was getting on the bus. Once the bus drivers saw all the packages that my mom and sister were holding, plus my cumbersome roll of cotton, they’d usually drive right by. Many times we’d have to wait over an hour until one of the kinder drivers would stop to let us on.

When we finally did get back to the apartment with all the supplies, we still had more work to do. At the top of the list was eating the fresh hot baked rolls Gardenia bought for us at our favorite bakery. The heavenly flaked rolls made the tiring trip well worth it. Then it was time to clean the cotton. Sure, there was clean cotton available to purchase, but Mom knew this extra cost was a luxury she could not afford. So it was left to me to remove all the dirt, twigs, and debris before Gardenia could use it to make her dolls. By the time I finished, there wasn’t a spec of dirt or twig to be found on the fabric. I moved so fast at my task that I finally was bestowed with a nickname. From now on, I’d be known in the family as Pulga, which means flea in Spanish. It’s not exactly a flower (Gardenia) or a treasure (Tesorita), but still it was mine, and I loved it.

Mom would make the dolls in our apartment. I would help paint on the eyelashes, and Tesorita would braid the hair. We’d use the same potato sacks that stowed our fruits and vegetables during our night farming to carry the new dolls. After filling the sacks with the finished products, it was now time for us to take them to the stores to sell.

For safety reasons, any money Gardenia received from the merchants went down the side of her oversized rubber boots. Since most store owners paid in coins, by the time she finished doing business, her boots would become heavy and cumbersome, so much so she’d have to walk like the Tin Man, slow and stiff.

Knowing our mother couldn’t chase after us, my sister and I would take advantage of the situation by purposely running ahead to tease Gardenia to catch up. This little mischievous act was about as bad as Tesorita and I could be without our mom taking out the belt. Of course, she’d threaten to give us both a good spanking once we arrived home, but she never did. When we did get back to the apartment, the three of us were eager to stack and count all the coins. When we finished, I could see the relief in my mom’s eyes, knowing that she was going to get through another month.

Another venture Gardenia had was baking arepas for Tesorita