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Last week I mulched the area behind my garage where a scrawny sapling had been planted more than 25 years ago. Miraculously it has grown into a beautiful, healthy Japanese maple. A foot-wide row of black-eyed Susans formed a fence around the mulch, but none had blossomed yet. It was too early.

When finished, I sat down and sent Candy Carr this text: “I mulched around the Japanese maple that Hannah and Luke and Andy stripped of leaves and made magic with. It made me think of you and John. I miss conversations and dinners and seeing the love in all your expressions. That's the real magic.”

She responded: “LOVE this story, as well as being horrified as a mom that your kid would destroy someone else’s property!”

Candy was in hospice when I sent the text. It was too early for that, too, but even with waning strength she welcomed the thought about her sons. Let me share the story she loved, a story that hopefully made her smile.

Years ago, my wife babysat for Luke and Andy Carr before they started school. They became part-time brothers for our Hannah, John and I reconnected, and a great friendship began between our families despite the boys reporting to Candy that I could not sing.

Well, late one September I came home early. When I pulled in the driveway, I could see Luke and Andy and Hannah huddled together. The two blondes and our red head blended into the scenery of the yellow coneflowers and the scarlet leaves of the maple. They surrounded an aluminum bowl and were energetically stirring something. All three laughed as they worked and were so obsessed that they did not hear my approach.

The unexpected left me speechless. I fought to mask my own horror when I realized that six little hands were cramming hundreds of leaves into the pint-sized cauldron. They had pulled them from the Japanese maple. In fact, they had harvested every leaf.

Dumbfounded, I finally asked, "What are you doing?"

Not embarrassed to be sitting next to a tree that had been stripped naked, they exclaimed in unison, "Making magic!"

How could they not be? They had found the Tree of Resilience, a tree that would survive hungry hands and harsh winters. They had plucked the delicate, seven-pointed leaves and were making a potion from what must have looked like Faerie stars to them. It was a powerful concoction with a mojo that was strong enough to save the children and eventually the tree.

I don't know which parent provided the abracadabra gene for Luke and Andy Carr, but I suspect they inherited it from their mother just as our Hannah did. Candy and Julie did not need bat wings or eye of newt to conjure up their unique brands of delight. They wielded spontaneity and youthful charm and love like a sorceress uses incantations.

Oh, Candy, I hope you really weren’t horrified that day when I told you what had happened. At least be thankful that I didn’t try to sing the story to you.

Candy Carr made such a difference in so many lives. She is a great teacher who still has lessons for us. Her courage is contagious. Her love for children and grandchildren and family is inspirational. Her legacy will live on because her magic is genuine.

Candy will be missed but will still be with us. Real magic stays alive in our hearts and actions.