As I lifted my foot off the front door steps, the heady aroma from the phlox filled my head. I could hear the bees buzzing as they covered the brilliant pink buds. The smell never fails to evoke fond memories of a vase filled with flowers on my grandmother’s table. All summer a mixture of loosely arranged buds always adorned the table. My maternal grandparents’ garden filled their entire backyard. A neatly planted vegetable garden was split down the middle by a path. My always hardworking grandfather had decided a spigot and table should be set halfway down the path. It was the best place to rinse off a newly pulled, plump orange carrot before chomping down on it. It was the best taste in the world! Especially tasty when I was in the company of my tall, gregarious grandfather. It is always great company when you are with someone that clearly thinks you are extremely wonderful. He may have felt that way because I was one of the few that let him tell his stories for hours on end. Along the edge of the yard and under the kitchen windows, my grandfather left room for the flowers. They seemed to grow there all on their own, as there was no order, in total contrast to his vegetable garden. They ranged in every conceivable color, size, and shape. Nearby a big old stump was always strewn with scraps from my grandmother’s kitchen, special treats for the squirrels and birds. After every stomach-stretching meal, she would fill an old pie tin with bits of everything left over from the meal. She would send one of us children out to the stump. Who knew what ate even those homemade egg noodles, cooked peas, and carrots?
My grandparents on my father’s side, Grandpa Joe and Grandma Lil, also filled my young soul with memories of gardens. I can never see a rusty orange poppy, bobbing its tall head in the wind, and not see an old fence and my grandma’s pretty flowers. I do not believe those flowers needed tending…but always thought of them as belonging to my very short, sweet grandmother. She always looked upon us with the deepest love in her warm eyes. Her chuckle is always carried in my heart, and I hear it still today in my baby sister’s laughter. Their yard was a place of wonder. Tall grasses, wild flowers, and equally wild, evasive kittens! Huge vats filled with tiny, bitty toads. We could wander all over through the tall grasses, our own personal jungle. It was truly a child’s paradise. There was a bear skin rug and a grandpa that was also filled with tales. He would sit on an old stump outside by the back door, piece of long grass between his teeth, and a goofy grin on his craggy face. An easy man for a grandchild to love. I wish I could remember those stories, but I do remember they were wonderful and funny. Flowers are such a part of my childhood memories.
Every spring my mother would take us on a ride along the wooded roadways. We would collect armfuls of crisp white trilliums and crisp yellow marsh flowers. I really am not sure what we did with all of those bouquets, but I am sure we shared them with others. It was such a fun spring tradition. Spotting a trillium in the woods or my garden quickly reminds me of my mom and our special excursions. Carefree childhood is gone, but every once in a great while, I stop the hard work I’m doing in my own garden and “take time to smell the roses”. I know I should do it more than I do for when I do, I find such joy in the memories of gardens of my childhood. And gardens of my adulthood. So I hope this reminds you to take a moment…
Photos taken by my daughter Mary. Visit her at Mary’s Garden Grows
Originally published in Bottom Line News & Views, August 2018</em.