We have cumbersome snow banks encircling us on every side as I
write this column in early February. Can I instantly project myself
into May, I ask? And June? Why not? I saw the first brave Horned
Larks seeking for grit along our roadsides recently. The activity
of our flamboyant pair of Cardinals, six perky Blue Jays, our
suet-loving Hairy and Downy Woodpeckers, and our jaunty gray and
Sparrows, some busy Nuthatches, along with clouds of House Sparrows
plus one cross old starling, and you have a picture of our much
visited bird feeder. They are reminders of all the birds yet to
return in the spring.
My mind marches ahead to an anticipated 1976 garden. What will
our yards produce beside the staple vegetables which keep us
eating? I would recommend to every young gardener the planting of a
suitable section reserved for memories. As the years pass this
becomes ever more interesting, especially when certain plants
become irreplaceable.
Some of my prize tulip bulbs were purchased at a hardware store
in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. Our eldest son was in the Paratroopers
at one time and was stationed at Fort Campbell when we visited him.
On a sunny Saturday afternoon we drove to the nearest town to
absorb some local color and flavor. This was about twenty years
ago, but each spring I am greeted with bright membories of that
day. Paul came in first man that weekend in spot jumping and hit
the sound truck as he came down. He put a dent in the fender with
his body and was limping rather painfully for the duration of our
visit.
My fern-leafed peony is growing into a beautiful specimen of
plant life. The root came from a most vociferous lady whom our
growing children dubbed ‘The Talky Lady.’ I’m not sure
I can recall her name either. She has passed on now but she comes
vibrantly alive each spring when her rare gift breaks forth from
fat vermilion buds.
There is another perennial which explodes into a bright yellow
specimen each year. This one I can’t really identify, so it
adds mystery to my garden. I dearly loved my neighbor who gave me a
piece of her root. Our viewpoints on religion were quite different,
however, but our shared plant never seemed to mind.
Next to the Garden Heliotrope grows a lovely semi-double cerise
rose which originally came with early settlers from Pennsylvania. A
gracious lady from this family shared it with my mother. She was my
ideal of what a Christian lady should be. It is a thrill to have
one of her roses in remembrance of her sweetness and piety. My one
regret is that it has no fragrance.
Last year I decided I just must have a Cabbage Rose, and it had
five or six blossoms with a fragrance to more than make up for the
other’s lack. You see, my mother had cabbage roses, but somehow
they were lost. This one is even prettier, and much sturdier.
Mother’s was so easily ruined by rain.
At the end of the clothesline is an unusual shrub which is an
offshoot of a bush owned by another old friend who shed her cheer
to every one around her. She was childless but adopted every
neighborhood kid as her own. She goes way back to the bright days
in our country school. All four of these women are gone, but I have
a bit of each in my garden. Just think … a conversational Peony,
a nameless neighborly yellow bloomer, a saintly Rose, and a
schooled Euonymus!
A shared root from a friend or neighbor seems to send up
stronger shoots and produce brighter blossoms. There is love down
there! And what a good feeling it is to share your garden treasures
with others.
It makes me happy to hear a daughter-in-law or daughter exclaim,
‘Say, Mother, can I have a start of that in the spring?’ I
think to myself ‘Aha, after I am gone she may say, That prize
is from Mother’s garden. Isn’t it beautiful?’
Our country is 200 years old this bi-centennial year. We needed
to get back to some of the simple things such as shared gardens,
visiting our neighbors, swapping old-fashioned recipes.
Along with all my memoried flowers grows a lasting happiness.
But one plant I treasured the most, I lost. My next door neighbor,
Mabel, found this gorgeous petunia in a greenhouse one spring.
Never have I seen such ruffled purity! She and I both nurtured it
summer and winter, but finally we both failed. We almost wept.
There is nothing left of that petunia’s beauty and heavy
fragrance but the poem which is to follow. Mabel is gone, but never
the memory of our sharing. Henry Nevard was the rose I teamed with
her charm. Henry is with me still.
And what may seem like somewhat of a miracle is the fact that
after Mabel passed on, her sister-in-law called with a touching
offer. She wanted me to come and choose one of Mabel’s pieces
of milk glass for my collection. No one had seen the poem I had
written since her death, nor the mention of milk glass. I will now
share it with you.
SHE – AND RED ROSES
Once upon a
time I grew a petunia.
My charming neighbor
brought the straggly slip.
It had no promise
I was unimpressed.
But Oh! Such ruffled loveliness
She offered God each fragrant day!
One heavy wintertime
she passed away in spite
Of ardent indoor care.
Each spring our quest in greenhouses
was for such pristine beauty
Chaste as hers.
We met with failure. We shall search
no more, for glorified, her whiteness
all aglow
Again she’ll grow beside the heavenly
door of our two neighboring homes.
She was too rare for earth . . .
She, and red roses in a milk glass bowl.
