Our friend Joan lives down the street in a little victorian house surrounded by a garden which is her great passion. In her garden there are paths of tiny river stones, rotating iron fish, the sounds of bamboo wind chimes and many birds feeding at the many feeders hung from poles and branches. The flowers and plants of her garden are constantly changing, from waxing lillies to waning roses. Geraniums jump from a row of pots casually laid upon her old back porch where bags of compost and bird seed are kept. The garden is a riot of colors, scents, sounds and purposes.

She has been my friend for over thirty years, something I find rather hard to imagine. Through out that time we have both woven paths through life that finally met again in her garden. As I am now her neighbor, and still more or less servicable, she calls on me from time to time to help her with chores. In exchange I usually receive a lunch or dinner and pleasant hours of conversation. Somehow a mexican beer always seems to find a way into my hand just as I'm slipping out into her garden to smoke and think of things while taking in the surrounding glories.

I don't really know where these pages are going. Eventually the words will come to fill in the spaces, but for now it is pictures- plain and simple.