Flower Gardening and Grandma's House
In going through old papers, I came across this essay I wrote years ago. Preston, who in the essay is said to be four-years-old, is now twenty-one. But the phlox plant still grows in my garden. Being the middle of winter, when flower gardens are only memories, it seemed appropriate to share other fond memories as well.
A phlox plant grows in my flower garden. It blooms pale lavender flowers late in the summer when most other flowers have come and gone. Other than that there is nothing extremely striking or unique about it. It is, in fact, a rather common flower. Yet to me, who loves my flowers almost as much as I love my children, it is a favorite. It came from a start I took from the phlox growing in my grandmother’s garden. We dug the start, put it in a large can, and arranged it carefully in the back of the car for the two hundred mile trip from Grandma’s house to mine.
A phlox plant grows in my flower garden. It blooms pale lavender flowers late in the summer when most other flowers have come and gone. Other than that there is nothing extremely striking or unique about it. It is, in fact, a rather common flower. Yet to me, who loves my flowers almost as much as I love my children, it is a favorite. It came from a start I took from the phlox growing in my grandmother’s garden. We dug the start, put it in a large can, and arranged it carefully in the back of the car for the two hundred mile trip from Grandma’s house to mine.
This past summer my sister
visited me when the phlox were in bloom. I had her close her eyes and smell
some of the blossoms I had arranged in a bouquet on my table.
“What does it remind you of?” I
asked.
Her immediate answer was,
“Grandma’s house.”
I knew it would be.
Often as I weed and dig around
the phlox in my garden, I will catch a whiff and I am transported back in time
to my grandmother’s house. I see the old upright piano with a line of
photographs on top of it. One large frame holds a picture of Grandpa’s family
when he was a baby—the fifteenth of sixteen children. Other pictures are of my
mother and my aunt taken in the glamorous style of the 1950’s. Beside the piano
is Grandma’s large chair and a table holding her telephone. It is the days of
party lines. One ring means it is for Grandma. Two short ones mean it is for
the neighbor. On the other side of the piano is the formal dining table pushed
up against the wall. The only time I have eaten at that table is on
Thanksgiving. All other meals at Grandma’s are eaten at the big table in the
kitchen. Beyond the kitchen is the screened porch which is Grandma’s laundry
room. It holds Grandma’s ringer style washing machine, with a rope stretched
across the room serving as a clothes line. Through the screens I can see the
garage where Grandpa’s old tractor is parked. I no longer runs on anything
except children’s imaginations. Playing on it is one of our favorite things to
do when my brothers, my sisters, and I visit Grandpa and Grandma. Occasionally
we have the privilege of sleeping over at their house. My sister and I share
one of the cold back bedrooms. We snuggle to keep warm between the sheets on
the large soft bed. We will awake in the morning to the distant sound of a
tractor working the fields or the soft mooing of the cows as Grandpa herds them
in for milking. These are not sounds we hear at home, but they do not seem
foreign to us. They are part of being at our grandparents’ house, and that is
almost the same as being at home.
Outside in the yard are
Grandma’s flowers—lilacs, poppies, spirea, peonies, and of course the phlox.
She loves them all, but her pride are her roses. Grandma allows me to pick a
bouquet from her garden, including some of her precious roses, to take home
with me. I feel very privileged. I hold it tightly and smell its lovely
fragrance the whole way home.
It this where my love of flowers
was born? Or did it come to me through the genes that passed from my
grandmother to my mother to me?
Grandma lived in her home and
tended her flowers into her nineties. Then it became necessary for her to move
in with my parents and eventually into a rest home. Even there she worried and
fussed about who was taking care of her garden.
The buzzing of a bee near my ear
brings me back to the present, and I continue my gardening chores. My
four-year-old son, Preston, joins me.
“What’s that flower?” he asks.
“Phlox,” I reply.
“It’s pretty,” he says and steps
forward to smell it. “Mmmm,” he begins
even before his nose has come near the flowers. He does not know it but he is
breathing in my childhood memories.
He moves to another flower.
“What’s this flower?”
“Purple coneflower,” I reply. We
have been having this conversation all summer, only the names of the flowers
have changed as the plants have each taken their turn in bloom.
“Can I pick some?” Preston asks.
“Sure,” I reply.
He tugs at the phlox, and I help
him pull off one bunch before his efforts pull over an entire plant. Then he
plucks some asters and black-eyed Susans. He clutches his bouquet in his chubby
hands. “Aren’t the pretty,” he asks.
“They sure are,” I answer.
Preston beams and buries his
nose in the flowers. Watching him, I see that the “genes” which have come to me
from my grandmother are now being passed down to a new generation.
Perfect.
ReplyDeleteLoved this. Reminded me of when I was little and we visited great grandma's house.
ReplyDelete