It must have been late July or early August of 2001 when I finally got around to responding to Lee Bailey’s invitation to his home in New York. It had been a loose invitation to come and see him when the roses bloomed, so I called a few weeks in advance to let him know I would be in town (and to scope out whether the invite was genuine). He was kind and insisted I stop by to see him.

When I was a kid, his book ‘Country Flowers’ was my Bible (a somewhat strange thing for a boy to be so interested in flowers and gardening, but I sensed a kinship and inspiration in Mr. Bailey – in the way he appreciated beauty, in the way he nurtured a garden, in the way he conveyed eloquence and elegance in words and pictures). When I was about twelve I wrote him a fan letter, hand-written on lined notebook paper, and I called information (555-1212) from our rotary-dial phone to find out his address, which they gave without question or concern.

A few weeks later I heard back from Mr. Bailey himself, in a type-written letter wherein he expressed admiration for my love of gardening at such a young age. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to plant a seed in the head of an impressionable child, and his words of encouragement (and the simple fact that he wrote back) had an indelible effect on me. I would revisit ‘Country Flowers’ often, usually in the dead-middle of winter, when the hope of sunshine and spring was all we had.

It wasn’t until 2001 that I thought of contacting Mr. Bailey again, having been moved by one of the book’s passages, and struggling through another winter in upstate New York. In that letter, I referenced the first one I had written so many years ago, and as he did at that time, he replied again with a type-written letter, the signature betraying frailty and age, but the words still as concise and eloquent as ever. At the end of it he invited me to visit him in New York City, “when the roses bloom” and that summer I took the train into midtown to do some shopping and see Suzie.

In one of the garish celebrity-themed rooms of the Chelsea Pines Hotel, the air-conditioner was cranked on high. Summer in the city was something I usually avoided, but to meet the man who helped form and shape my lifelong love of gardening, as well as the person who wrote such wonderful words, it would be worth it. Or it would be a supreme disappointment. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

What does one wear to meet a hero? In the heat of a city summer, where the sidewalks bake and the subways broil, all fashion bets are off, and it becomes a matter of what will best stand up to sweat and sun. In this instance I chose a pair of light khakis, sandals, and a short-sleeve button-up shirt in breathable cotton, a faint abstract pattern of white clouds on the lightest of blue skies.

Mr. Bailey’s penthouse was only several blocks away on W. 23^rd Street, but well before our agreed-upon meeting time, I began a slow, leisurely walk to calm my nerves. Though not known to many of my contemporaries, Lee Bailey was a celebrity to me, and not just on a famous level: he was a personal hero, whose eye for beauty was an inspiration, and whose writing taught me the transporting power of words. On reaching the appointed building, I gave my name to the doorman, who politely directed me to the elevator, telling me to take it all the way to the top floor.

No matter how many times I see it, the sumptuous look of wealth always astounds me. The ease of it, the refinement, the quiet serenity – the world is different this high above the city. Even the air is altered – cooler on this summer day, and streaming in through the French doors that opened onto a surrounding roof deck. There is no need for crude air conditioning, and a woman greets me in the hallway, leading the way to meet my idol.

I sit on a couch in the living room, surrounded by understated elegance and finery, and I accept a glass of ice water. Lee walks in slowly, looking older than the book jacket photos, but with a twinkle in his eyes betraying a life well-lived. We share some small talk, and I manage to hold a conversation despite my awestruck status. He suggests we take a walk around the roofdeck, and apologizes that I just missed the roses. A few straggling blooms are all that remain from June’s bounty, but it doesn’t matter.

Somehow, it is enough just being there with my hero. After years of admiring him from afar, I am still the little boy who wrote this gentleman a fan letter, having no connection to him whatsoever aside from the words and photographs he assembled in his book, and yet it is not awkward. We return inside, and he shows me where he does most of his correspondence. Tall shelves of books line the walls and reach upwards to the ceiling. A printer and computer sit on a desk. He is no different from anyone else, yet he has known and created such beauty.

We part shortly after, and I feel honored to have been granted an audience with him on this peaceful summer day. Back on the street, the heat is still there. I loosen a few buttons on my shirt and walk back to the hotel. We will maintain a correspondence for a while – he will send me his latest book and invite me to several of his holiday parties (each a separate post for another time). When I don’t hear from him for a while I send another letter, and a few weeks later I receive a response in the mail with his return address.

Savoring the moment, I bring the letter into the formal living room, settling into the couch and slowly opening up the promise of a hero’s words. It is a short note written in a strange hand by someone that I don’t know, and inside its folds is a copy of Lee’s obituary, several weeks after the fact.

It is a bittersweet moment – the shock of his life being no more and the gratefulness of having been some small part of it, at the very end. Though I did not know him that well, and would consider it much too bold to call him a friend, I knew I would miss him. Without knowing it, he guided me in his own way, his words steering me and keeping me on track, always on the path to beauty, to something better.

Dear Noah & Emi ~

You won’t be old enough to understand any of this any time soon, but one day you will, and if I don’t write it down now it’s likely to be forgotten.

You have a long winding road ahead of you, and until your thirties you’re going to want to speed up the journey. Try not to do that.

You’ve got a pair of parents that absolutely adores you – never forget that. Even when you get mad at them, remember how much you are loved, and everything they have done has been because of that love. But also remember that no one is perfect, especially parents – you have to love them anyway. There is no tried and true manual for the raising of children, and mistakes will be made by all (even perfect Uncles). Be forgiving, and willing to accept others for their foibles. We do not have a hand in choosing family, but you’ve been blessed with a pretty good one.

You have an assortment of Uncles and a very special Aunt, all of whom love you dearly. Remember that we will always be here for you whenever you need us. I didn’t get to see my extended family as often as I would have liked, so don’t ever take that for granted.

Never be anything other than who you are, and never make any apologies for it. You will become the person you are destined to be no matter what. There will be good people, and some bad, to guide you on your way, but in your heart you will know what is right. It will not always be an easy decision, and no one makes the right choice every time. Own up to the mistakes and learn from them. Don’t get bogged down in shame and embarrassment.

You are about as close in age as a brother and sister can get, and that’s going to lead to a few fights. My brother and I were a year and a half apart and we fought like crazy – I can only imagine what being a twin will be like when all you want to do is be alone. But whenever you feel the slightest bit of resentment or anger toward your brother or sister, remember that not many people get to be born with an automatic best friend, and there is no one else on earth who will be able to understand absolutely everything you’re going through or who will have the exact same set of growing experiences and background. That will be a treasure when the rest of the world doesn’t always get you.

Finally, there are some things you should never skimp on: stationary and luggage. Both will reward you for life.

Love, Uncle Al

My favorite part of elementary school was the arts and crafts moment of every day, where we would dissemble throughout the classroom and work on whatever project the teacher had taught us to do. I liked the mostly-solitary aspect of these projects, though I always managed to socialize and visit with others during this time. My work was mine alone, executed solely from and for my vision, and untainted by the ideas or inspiration of another.

I remember doing a diorama in class, then rummaging my Mom’s closet for more shoe boxes so I could make them at home. Whereas others dreaded such artsy-fartsy stuff, I reveled in it, even if my enthusiasm for it often far exceeded any artistic capability. There were yarn pom-pom sculptures, watery pastel-chalk Easter eggs, and impressionistic tissue paper paintings.

During the Christmas holidays, our creative output reached its zenith – angels of corregated poster board topped with tinsel halos, Santas with disproportionately-long cotton ball beards, and Christmas trees doused in so much glue and glitter that a drag queen would cut a kid over it. And then one of my favorite, albeit simple, craft projects of all – paper link chains of garland, in every conceivable color and combination. Back then they seemed to take forever to make, as we had to use paste instead of staples, creating one link at a time, and holding it together long enough to have the paste stick. (We used the paste that wouldn’t kill you if ingested, or give you a sniffing high if inhaled – in other words, it didn’t work. How could it when you put a mound of it on a paper towel and it’s still pliable the next morning?)

The idea of that paper garland has stuck with me all these years, and when faced with the prospect of making wedding decorations it came back in an inspired rush. Having had to square a thousand sheets of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven colored paper for that number of paper cranes, I was left with a thousand excess bands of said paper, which I piled up and saved in the event that they might be of some use. I trimmed them down a bit, stapled them together (much easier than paste), and quickly created a simple, cost-efficient, and surprisingly elegant decoration. Homemade, a little humble, and completely from the heart – just like our wedding celebration next month.

I think I first heard word of the creek from my brother. He had traveled there by bike, ducking into a roadside forest and happening upon it by accident. He said it was just around the corner from where Van Dyke met Golf Course Road. That was a long trek on foot, but I couldn’t get my bike through the forest, (and I was afraid it would be stolen if I left it by the road) so I had to get there by walking.

Setting out in the morning after everyone in the house had gone, I could be back before anyone questioned my whereabouts, and still have much of the day left. At the top of my parents’ street, I turned left onto Van Dyke, and from there it was a straight, albeit hilly, walk to the end.

I looked at the gardens of the houses I passed, examining and making mental note of how they used their annuals in various color schemes, while cicadas buzzed ominously out of sight. A golf course rolled out its green carpet to my left. We had gone hunting for golf balls there once, climbing over a dilapidated portion of fence and hiding from the golfers along the forest’s edge.

Nearing Golf Course Road was the most treacherous part of the journey. Cars whizzed along the straight stretch of road, and no one walked here. The sun was high in the sky, beating down with no shade around me. A dusty stretch of pebbles and dry dirt afforded little sustenance at the edge of the road, not even for the most hardy of weeds.

I thought about turning back, but I had come so far it would be a shame to waste the effort. I looked both ways, and when no cars could be seen for a mile in either direction, I hurried across the road to the side where the creek was supposed to be. Here there was moisture, and the grasses and weeds were up to my knees. The land dipped away from the edge of the road, and I bounded down over the ditch to where the border of brush and trees began.

It was like a verdant curtain that opened into another world. From the blindingly bright sun-drenched stretch of parched roadside to the dim cool shade beneath a leafy canopy, the distinction was immediate and immense. I was suddenly enveloped by a mossy forest, soft beneath my feet and quiet after the crunch of gravel and pavement – even the cicadas were muffled here, drowned out by overlapping veins of chlorophyll and beams of moist wood.

The forest opened up before me as I adjusted to the difference in light. Shielded from passing cars and prying eyes, I was alone in the stillness, and there ahead of me was the creek. It was not rushing or tumbling along some rocky incline, so it barely made any noise. Instead, it twisted and turned silently, the water gently drifting from shallow pool to shallow pool. I had brought along a small container that once housed Cool Whip in case I might be able to catch a crayfish, and set it down alongside the creek bed.

The water was cool and clear, and I dipped my hands into it. A group of tadpoles darted away, their tiny legs just beginning to protrude. I moved a few rocks around and there was a large gray crayfish. It too shot quickly away, burying itself deeper among the rocks. There was no way of getting at it without using my bare hands, and though I was a scrappy boy, I was not about to get torn up that way.

I moved a little further along the small stream, enjoying the hidden tranquility. In another small pool I managed to corral a couple of tadpoles into my container, having given up on the crayfish. In my childish wisdom, however, I had not brought along a cover to the bowl, so it was a feat keeping the water contained and balanced, and the tadpoles within the confines. I vowed to walk steadily and carefully home.

The way back usually seems to go by a lot quicker than the way there. That was not the case on this day. Trying to balance a relatively flat pool of water, watch the road, and walk home is not an easy task, simple as it made seem. The container splashed its precious cargo around, and soon one of the tadpoles had disappeared.

About halfway home I lost a couple more, and eventually all I had was a bit of creek water and some sand, which I promptly dumped. The rest of the journey went by a little faster with no more need for such care in my step, and I made it home in time for lunch. My summer day ended as it began, with an empty container and an unquenched yearning for adventure.