Germination

Dear Mom,

One of your earliest–and most enduring–gifts to me was the flourishing desire to nurture plants. As a girl I was wowed by your magic of growing flowers.

While kinetic kids romped around our house and yard, I’d escape to a patch of peace in my very own garden bed. You had created narrow beds of soft soil along the house perimeter, one for each of us to choose and tend whatever we wanted to plant. Pincushions, pumpkins, sunflowers, beanstalks–any whimsy was okay.

Oh, the wide wonder and can’t-waitness in watching over that patch of mine-alone earth! I cherished having a spot I could be outdoors, kneeling close to the chocolate-brownie moist dirt. I’d breathe in its richness and sigh dreamily at the possibilities it promised. Daily I checked for progress of bachelor button seedlings and other easy-to-grow annuals you wisely suggested.

Your irises and tulips poked up every spring, no matter which month the Midwestern winter finally departed. You’d cut me a perky tulip and two perfect purple irises to take to my teacher. My eight-year-old heart soared with gratitude for your floral philanthropy as you beheaded your beloved blooms.

Now, some forty years since then, my California garden has many mentions of you, Mom: Velvety purple irises. The delicious earthy smell of humble red geraniums reminding me of your common sense approach to life. Periwinkle bachelor buttons that match your eyes. And each autumn, your presence is near as I sniff tangy mum petals the colors of Indian corn and picture pots of mums nestled near pumpkins on our old front porch.

Thank you, Mom, for compassionately nurturing your children and flowers, and for budding in me the ongoing hope, joy, and perennial discovery of gardening.

With an armful of iris love, Laurie