She and her groom will exchange vows on a hilltop overlooking Samish Bay. Not Kachemak Bay. Not in my garden. I can honor this decision. I can buck up.

But it got me to thinking, to looking at my garden journal and checking the log on bloom times that I have been keeping at this location for the last seven years. The peonies have been consistently beautiful the first week in July. Hmmm. An idea takes hold: why not a pre-wedding party? Andrea is a mediator and she recognizes a compromise when she sees one. She agrees, the groom agrees, we set the date: July 8, 2006.

The guest list is composed of everyone who has positively touched her life. And the list is long. It’s a lot to ask that many people to travel to Washington for the wedding.

Andrea fully understands what a very special place Homer is. That our friends here have taken the place of family a continent away. That this tiny branch of the Fitzpatricks are who we are because of our lifestyle choice. And because of our family of friends.

So I watch the weather, starting in early June. The plants are taking their time. Why should they hurry? It is cold, wet, windy. Not the favorable conditions that have been coddling them for their entire lives at this location.

But I have hope. I have a daughter, she has a groom and we have a garden. The party planning moves along smoothly.

Gardening is, if nothing else, about flexibility. Not exactly my middle name. But that may be why I get so much enjoyment from it. I just never know exactly what is going to happen. The garden will not fall into line and behave in an orderly fashion.

You want peonies. Forget it. You get lilacs, lots of lilacs, and roses, and creeping thyme, and aquilegia, and thalictrum, and day lilies, and geraniums, and bleeding hearts, and tuber begonias, and azaleas, and a huge bed of iris setosa, and white violets and clematis tangutica, and primulas, and creeping phlox, and lamium, and the dregs of doronicom, and pansies, always pansies.

But what about this endless drizzle, this cold? There is a 65-person guest list. This is a very small house. But this also is Homer, and I am counting on the guests to come dressed in layers, to be … flexible.

On the morning of the party, we arrange furniture to accommodate the masses. The stairs are carpeted and have been used as extra seating before. The upstairs also is carpeted and we are throwing pillows around. Rain is anticipated with as much loathing as the slugs that are sure to follow.

But then the clouds break, a light wind picks up, just enough to keep the bugs at bay. The caterers breeze in, 100 percent confident that their food is delicious and will be deeply appreciated. They note the excellent weather and join us for a toast; their presence and the sun has picked up my spirits.

This party is about our family of friends coming together to shower Andrea, a young woman they have known her whole life, with love, honor and respect. This is a small town and there is little that Andrea has and has not done that has gone unnoticed. When she first left Homer, the freedom of anonymity was intoxicating. For a while then she missed the chats in line, the waves from cars. She missed and misses her family of friends.

The party is a gift. A reminder of where she comes from, of who she has left behind and how many of us love her. A gift to the future son-in-law, knowing that he has a life partner who has been influenced by many wonderful people, that she is the sum of her parts.

Yes, the peonies were being counted on to make a show, to make a loud and clear statement: This is a glorious garden, a garden fit for a wedding. Well, no peonies, no vows exchanged, but a glorious garden and a heart-warming party nevertheless.