
In honor of Father's Day, my post for today is from my Scatter Joy book,
excerpted from the chapter entitled "The Joy of Nature". This chapter was
inspired by my father, Frank Consaley. While my dad is no longer with us, he
is ever present in my heart. I celebrate him with the warmest memories
possible on this Father's Day.

I may have received my devotion to nature from my dad. Truly a
man of the earth, my father loved to be outdoors. A landscaper
by trade, he labored his whole life doing nursery work—planting
trees and gardens, trimming shrubbery, and raising plants.
My mother has always been devoted to her faith. She attended church
every week and taught Sunday school “religiously” for many
years. My dad, on the other hand, preferred to do his worshipping in
the outdoors. His faith, while he did not talk about it much, was
expressed in the care he gave to his trees, shrubs, flowers, and the
beauty of the natural world.
My dad was a quiet man with a sly sense of humor, and his love of
nature was second only to his love for his family. He kept bantam
chickens as a hobby, and he loved feeding and watching birds in the
backyard. When he retired from his landscaping job, he continued
to raise small plants in his own nursery, often cultivating cuttings
from his own shrubs. He took real pride in the forsythia, arborvitae,
hydrangea, azaleas, and boxwood plants he raised. Setting his plants
out by our well-traveled road, he began selling them (practically giving them away)
to passersby. A small business was born! Dad was so proud of his shrubs,
and he took great pleasure when his customers returned to rave
about how happy they were with his beautiful and thriving plants.
If that’s not scattering joy, I don’t know what is.

My love of flowers—a love that may be evident in my artwork!—
is something I surely inherited from my dad. Although I enjoy
cutting and bringing fresh bouquets indoors, my dad couldn’t
bear doing that. He saw this as shortening the lives of the flowers,
and he much preferred seeing them in their natural setting. That
difference of opinion caused a bit of friction for us. I can recall
planting gladiola bulbs with him each year, and I couldn’t wait
to cut them into bouquets. I’d have to sneak them by my dad,
though, in order to bring them into the house!
My father passed away in the spring of 2001—at the very peak
of the most beautiful season of the year, when so many of his
flowering plants were in bloom. Today, those plants continue to
grow and bloom in the same beautiful and giving spirit with which
they came into being.