Flowers

There’s a reason the family of the deceased makes the “in lieu of flowers…” request. 

No, there are at least two reasons.   

Money spent on flowers can be put to much greater use if spent to perpetuate causes the deceased believed in or places that mattered to them.  When my father died, he had his obituary ready with the sole request for all donations in his memory to be made to the Salvation Army.  When he was a kid, this is where his family went to get bikes, toys, clothes, and household supplies.  He figured, if people are going to give money, give it to a place that makes a difference for those who do not have much to give themselves.  I know today that might sound presumptuous, but in his day and age, only the poor looked for things at the Salvation Army, and it was the poor he was looking out for and trying to help along.

I’ve just recently discovered the less obvious second reason for the request only because of a feeling that came over me.  Not everyone follows the “in lieu of flowers…” request.  Some send flowers anyway or in addition to the cause because let’s face it, flowers are nice.  At my sister’s house, near where my mother had lived, there are loads of bouquets sent in memory of my mother which were carried from the church to the place where everyone gathered afterwards.  One arrangement in particular caught my eye.  It had deep purple flowers among others in a lovely vase.  I considered asking if I could take it home with me when I left since there were so many others, but I stopped before I could even finish the thought.  I became overwhelmed with the realization that the flowers would die, and that was something I didn’t want to see happen to the beautiful blooms in front of me.  The empty vase, regardless of what I might fill it with in the future would always remind me of the emptiness I feel inside.

I didn’t ask to take them.  Remembering them would be so much better.

Then today, as I was in the garden, I spent time looking at all the flowers around me.  I rarely, if ever, cut my flowers and bring them into the house for an arrangement.  I like my flowers to peak in their natural environs, and rarely do I even snip off the dying ones.  I see the plants’ progression to be a thing of beauty without need for cosmetic surgery.  My flowers are abundant, and for the first time, I considered snipping a few and bringing them inside.  At first I leaned towards my usual way of doing things (in this case, my usual way of not doing it) but decided, why not?  In the garden, I might spend a few hours a day enjoying what’s around me.  The flowers could extend that time, and could serve as the memorial bouquet that I wanted. 

Yes, I know these too will die, but it’s different here.  These can be replaced with the ones yet to bloom, and after each arrangement moves beyond its peak, the compost bin will accept the debris as part of the cycle for the next growing season.  My flowers belong here, and will continue to be here season after season.  As one variety slips into dormancy, another will begin to grow in force, allowing my bouquet to alter gradually.  Plus, the pieces of the bouquet, the individual varieties, are with me in the garden.  Parts of the whole, they show me that beauty exists in different contexts, and there’s a place for each.

Companion Gardener

My current garden is the one I’ve tended the longest.  The original space was tractor tilled in the spring of 2006 in a spot we had originally considered turning into a pond.  The grass there grew so thick and lush; my husband was convinced the spot was spring fed.   A pond seemed a happier alternative to the mower stopping every two passes due to clipping-clogged blades. 

A pond also would cost about $4,000 to have dug.  For a smaller fee, we could rent a backhoe ourselves, but, let’s just say, the thought of a certain loved one angled down a slope while perched on top of a piece of heavy machinery just didn’t generate many (read “any”) feelings of confidence.  If I was going to spend money, I wanted it to be for a pond, not a hospital bill.

So we ix-nayed the ond-pay, and figured such a moisture rich spot might serve well for the garden.  We got it dug, and I passed out seed catalogues.  Everyone chose five or six things they wanted to see put in.  The kids chose pumpkins (the hugest variety offered), beans, carrots, potatoes, sunflowers, etc.  My husband limited his choices to two:  tomatoes and asparagus.

He came from the land of black loam, aka Wisconsin.  His father and step-mom, Kathy, were work-horses in the garden, and the fruits of their labor showed abundantly.  Living on a trout ranch, they had an ample supply of fish emulsion, and used it in every way, shape, and form.  When we visited in the summer, we’d head out to the garden with them and feast.  The first call to my husband came from the miniature forest called the asparagus patch.  This thing was HUGE!  I’m not sure how long they’d had it, but if you classified gardeners by their ability to grow asparagus, these two were the masters of all masters.

And on our farm, we’d fall more into the category of abysmal failures.  We bought 25 3 year-old crowns for a pretty penny, and on our new garden plot our family of four went by the book and planted them for optimal growth. 

And nothing came of it after year one.

Year two was no better.

What year are we in now?  By this time, the patch has been re-dug, replaced with sweet potatoes (which proved the soil’s just fine), garlic, and blueberries.  I don’t know anyone around here who has an ample patch, much less a few stalks of asparagus, so I blamed geographic location.  The one farm I know that can work this magic sells at the farmers market, so they get my support and I get my asparagus.

But, as life shows us sometimes, what we think is gone, where we think we failed, might just be illusory, moving differently through space and time.  As I was checking on my blueberry bushes this afternoon, something caught my eye.  Before I could finish the thought, what’s that?  I jumped for joy!  Asparagus!  The beautiful irony in all of this is that Kathy, the second of the two masters to pass away, left us just days ago.  When I saw the asparagus, she sprang immediately into my mind.  I know I planted it, albeit years ago, but I felt like she was there, with a final, “THIS is how you’re supposed to do it!” complete with her devilish grin.  Chalk it up to irony, coincidence, synchronicity, whatever.  All I can say is that the timing was really nice.

When the rest of the family got home, I whisked them all back into the garden.  They know this drill, and called out questions on the way down.  “It’s strawberries, I know it is!”  “Is it the blueberries?”  “Did you find an animal?” “Peas aren’t ready, are they?”  I got them situated and asked my husband to recall his favorite thing from his family’s garden.  “Aspa….!”  He stopped when he saw it, confused, yet delighted.  I snapped a few stalks, offered them all around, and declared, “To Kathy!”  

L’Histoire du Jardin

I’m in New Orleans at the moment, so that explains my visit to the French language…

My blog is about gardening, but only loosely.  It’s more about what I enjoy about it, which is highly correlated to what I learn from it.  Something I learned came from my childhood gardening experience (or lack thereof).

My first memory of gardening is whacking my dad in the head with a shovel.

Without the pain that ensued, I’m sure it would have definitely been Three Stooges kind of funny.  The poor guy was trying to be instructive, kneeling on one knee as he was teaching my little sister something about seeds or plants or soil.  I stood up with the shovel over my shoulder, turned, and whammo! 

Oops!

I’m sure I would have gotten it had he been able to stand and steady himself.  In a drained voice he stammered, “Out….OUT!!!”

So my seven year old self followed orders and found something else to do, like shoot baskets or hop on my bike. 

I guess it was then and there that he decided kids don’t belong in a garden.

But I do remember the good food.  Our strawberries were to die for.  My dad was a smart guy, and to keep birds away, he put down some black plastic tubing to suggest the presence of snakes.  He did take me out to see that ingenious plot, and I looked, awestricken at the trick with my toes firmly planted outside the garden border.  I also remember great crops of corn that were heavenly, although I need not mention his green thumb with squash, because I’m trying to maintain a positive attitude here.

My dad didn’t stick to gardening for more than a few years.  The experiment went awry when neighborhood kids and dogs trampled through or pests disturbed his hours of effort.  Plus, he was a busy person with a medical practice, coaching his kids’ sports teams, and his favorite hobby; the stock market.

So gardening became something we didn’t do, and come to think of it, I don’t remember many other families around us having vegetable gardens either.  It wasn’t until I bought my first house that I became interested again in putting future edibles in the ground.  My husband and I spent hours working a plot one San Antonio Sunday afternoon, and that night, visions of greens danced in my head.   

But the dancing came to a screeching halt the next morning.  The rains started, and continued, and flooding ensued.  I remember talking to my parents on the phone, telling them about all the work I had done, only to see it wash completely away.  My dad offered, “Well, you tried.  Maybe conditions aren’t right there for that sort of garden.”  I wasn’t remembering my first garden memory at the time, but there was something in me that metaphorically said no, I’m staying this time.  One bad experience isn’t enough reason call it quits.  The bad luck had to do with the timing, not the ability, and when one way doesn’t work then make a mental note, and try another.