The garden of a man

STEVE KAWARATANI

o7I believe that if it were left to artists to choose their own

labels, most would choose none.f7

-- BEN SHA

o7Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s

troublesome.f7

-- ISAAC ASIMOV

The acacia is situated prominently in his garden. Its finely cut,

grey foliage is a stark contrast to the nearly treeless neighborhood.

Gly Cooper had asked me to find this particular tree; I countered

that it would bloom but once, early in the year. “It doesn’t matter,”

he said. “I’m after the foliage. Have you ever seen such cool

leaves?”

I first met Gly Cooper in the seventh grade. We were both enrolled

in Mr. Farnes’ woodshop class, and after two weeks, I had shown

absolutely no proclivity toward woodworking (a trait that I carry to

this day). Ashamed of my lack of skill, I loitered through the

period, sweeping up the sawdust created by the inspiration of others.

“Hey,” a blond, surfer type said to me. “You can’t sweep the floor

for an entire semester. Let me show you how to cut a piece of wood

without cutting off your hand. By the way, I’m Gly Cooper.”

We were never very close throughout school. An avid student he was

not, but he navigated his way through the day, without a great deal

of exertion. He saved his energy for his twin passions -- surfing and

practicing with his band. From a distance, I secretly admired the

pretty girls that were always at his side. He was the personification

of cool in the ‘60s.

Life is so interesting. The twists and turns that lead us where we

are. That makes us who we are. I fell in love with Catharine. And Gly

became my brother-in-law.

He had become a very private man over the ensuing 20 years. Gly’s

art and love were his music. He would spend countless hours recording

his own songs, and he was rewarded with airtime on the local station.

Catharine and I hired his band to play during our holiday parties.

They created music that deserved recognition beyond our home.

Infrequently, Gly and I would reacquaint ourselves at extended

family gatherings. We talked about his boat and orchids. He inquired

about the type of organic fertilizers I favored for the garden.

When he moved to Costa Mesa, Gly found the sun to be unforgiving

on his treeless lot. He designed his own solar reduction plan, by

filling his garden with trees. I discovered that his eye for detail

extended beyond his music and carpentry. He was exacting on the

placement and orientation of the ficus and acacia trees that graced

his garden.

My brother-in-law lived a troubled life, but he chose his own path

as a gifted artist.

What was constant was his cat, Joey. They met fourteen years ago

and were inseparable. When Gly died last week, we all asked, “Where’s

Joey?”

Catharine found him, and he is living with us for now. Not

surprising, Joey is as gentle and loving as his master.

See you next time.

* STEVE KAWARATANI is happily married to local writer, Catharine

Cooper, and has three cats. He can be reached at (949) 497-2438 or

[email protected].