Sow a thought and you reap an action; sow an act and you reap a habit; sow a habit and you reap a character; sow a character and reap a destiny.

~ A common saying in the 19th Century that may or may not have began as a Chinese proverb. It has been attributed to American philosopher and poet Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), British author William Makepeace Thackeray (1811–1863), Scottish author Samuel Smiles (1812-1904), American theologian George Dana Boardman the Younger (1828-1903), American educator Frances Elizabeth Caroline Willard (1839-1898), British philosophical author James Allen (1864-1912), and American author and businessman Stephen R. Covey (1932-2012).

Outside our house today it has been raining cats and dogs. That’s what my Daddy, the king of pithy expressions, would say. Kitty and I are inside for the duration, but I do not mind at all. It almost never rains for hours in Knoxville, so a miracle is happening when it really rains. And no, I am not talking about a barely spitting shower that will never reach the roots of trees and plants, but a drenching rain that will bring the blooms!

Ahhhhh . . .

Rain is magic. After it rains, weeds are easier to pull, my roses couldn’t be happier, and there is not a more comforting sound to hear when I am going to sleep than the steady beat of raindrops hitting the roof. I am never lonely or bored when it rains because something exciting is happening,

Even better than rain, is the drama of wind and rain, but today is only rain and that is enough.

Sometimes rain can make you rethink your plans. I was about 5 years old and my sister Lisa was 4, and Mama was doing what she did so many weekdays when we little: ironing and watching her “program”, the soap opera, As the World Turns. Mamaw, Mama’s mother, must have given us strollers for our dolls that Christmas. After I piled the stroller with my doll and everything else that was important to me, Lisa followed suit. We pushed our strollers toward the door, and I told Mama we were running away from home.

“You are,” she said cooly. “It is raining, you know.”

I looked out the front door, and it was indeed raining. We decided we would put off running away till a sunnier day.

When we were young, Lisa and I were not fond of rain because it kept us from playing outside. Our parents did not have money to buy us toys so we used what was at hand. We put coal from the coal pile and leaves from our shrubs in a battered kettle to pretend we were cooking beef stew and green beans. I have hated green beans, but Lisa loved them.

A carpenter friend of my parents gave us some of his cast-off pieces of wood, and we built houses for our marbles. The blue and green marbles were men and boys and the red and yellow marbles were women and girls.

As teenagers, our summer wardrobe consisted of swimsuits because we spent every non-raining weekday at the only pool in South Knoxville: Buck’s. On Friday and Saturday nights, we were hostesses at our great-aunt Helen and uncle Bunt’s restaurant, Ye Olde Steak House. We were around 12 and 13 when we started working. We set up the tables, seated guests, and cleared tables. Aunt Helen gave us each $10 or $15 for the two nights of work from 3:00 p.m. until midnight or so. With our money, Lisa and I bought fingernail polish and makeup. And I bought records and books.

In our 20s, we waterskied behind the boat that Lisa and her husband Rocky owned. Rainy days did not stop us on Norris Lake where we slalom skied–that is, on one ski, not two. Lisa was known for her ability to stay on her ski behind the boat like a long-distance runner. We also did some tubing which is like skiing except with an inner tube instead of skis. Rocky used to love to drive in circles till he flipped me off the inner tube. Painful.

In the fall when the Great Smoky Mountains National Park was not so crowded with summer tourists, my sister and I would walk or bike through Cades Cove, a fertile valley surrounded by hills where people lived and cows grazed until the Smokies became a national park in 1934. Lisa and I talked about everything and never grew tired of each other’s company.

Lisa came into her own when she started working for Stanley’s Greenhouse, the business started by Rocky’s parents Mary Kathryn and Charles Stanley in 1955. Mama had been working there since 1972, Daddy worked there as well, so it was truly a family affair all around. Rocky was the head grower, and Lisa was the customer service queen who loved her customers dearly. Lisa taught their daughter Abby to work the cash register at the age of 8 when she had to stand on a step stool to reach the keys. After he graduated from college, their son Zach was responsible for the trees and shrubs area of the greenhouse which included growing roses.

Decades flew by and Lisa was a beehive of activity and enthusiasm–always smiling and encouraging her customers. The seasons at Stanley’s were full: a hectic spring of selling summer-season annuals as well as perennials. During the hot humid summer, Stanley’s sold houseplants and containers. In the fall, the greenhouse sold pansies, perennials, trees, and shrubs. For the holiday season, Stanley’s grew 30 or so different varieties of poinsettias, and winter allowed the crew to catch their breath as the greenhouse geared up for another spring.

Lisa sowed generosity and goodwill. She reaped love, affection, and devotion from her family, friends, and the countless lives she touched at the greenhouse. She loved making a difference in people’s lives. And she did.

The first time Lisa was diagnosed with cancer in 2010, she had surgery, recovered, and was back at work as quickly as she could manage. The second time she was diagnosed with cancer was nine years later in the fall of 2019. The diagnosis was grim from the start: Stage 4 bone cancer. As before, Lisa followed the treatment options suggested to her, but they made it impossible for her to work at the greenhouse which was her calling and bliss. Nonetheless, she marched on through 2020 and 2021, coming into Stanley’s occasionally to design containers for a few customers or to offer impromptu gardening advice. By 2022 Lisa’s spirit was strong but her body was tired.

On Friday, June 17, 2022, Rocky called me to say that my husband Kurt and I should come straight away to see Lisa who was very ill. She had an infection and was adamant that she did not want to be hospitalized. She wanted to go home. When we arrived, Lisa was lying on the couch. She was not worried about herself but was concerned about Mama who had fallen earlier in the week and broken her wrist. I assured her that we had taken Mama to a specialist and everything was fine–she should not worry.

Suddenly the skies seem to break open with a furious storm with loud cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning. And rain. Angry rain. Lisa decided she wanted to go out on the front porch and watch the storm. The rain was pelting down in torrents as we watched– it was hard to imagine that such a storm could appear out of nowhere. It was if the natural world rose up affronted by the looming loss of such a well-rooted tree as my sister. As the storm raged, Lisa stood for awhile, then sat– with family members close around her–and talked about hydrangeas and cultivars. Her speech became unintelligible, and we decided she needed to lie down. There, lying in the living room, she slipped into what appeared to be a coma. With family and friends around her.

A year ago, on Father’s Day Sunday, June 19, 2022, my beloved sister Lisa Diane Allen Stanley died. As I write this post I hear thunder in the distance on this the one year anniversary of her death. I still cannot take the measure of the loss of such a strong spirit as my sister. I can only chart her course in memory and carry her with me as I rush headlong forward, as we always have, into life.

Adventures and misadventures. The Allen sisters–15 months apart. Some people thought we were twins. Lisa gave birth to two gorgeous children, and she gave birth to hope and inspired people to grow their gardens. Perhaps it is not surprising that the natural world should respond with vigor to the passing of my little sister. I protected her when we were young, and we were best friends in high school. We walked alongside each other as adults. We were not the same, but we lived through the fires of our childhood together–not unscathed, but unbroken. Spirits are a mystery. They come and they go where they will. Time goes on, and it seems to stop.

My sister sowed love and affection and reaped love and affection. She loved and she was beloved.

Goodbye, little sister. You are not here, yet you are with me still.

~ Anna – 6/19/2022