Everything sublime is as difficult as it is rare. Baruch Spinoza

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

My Grandmother's Garden


In my garden there is a large place for sentiment.  My garden of flowers is also my garden of thoughts and dreams.  The thoughts grow as freely as the flowers, and the dreams are as beautiful.  ~Abram L. Urban

This memory was spurred by Alexandra of Brainy and Beautiful She posted a response about my iris that included her grandmother's garden. I was immediately hit with the image of my grandma's garden.

My mother's mother, my grandma Fallon, was a huge influence in my life. From what I have heard from my own mother, she was a tough task master as a mother. She was every child's dream as a grandma. I loved her passionately, she was my champion. 

I spent the first years of my life with her over the summer. My mother was not meant to mother, so she sent me to grandma. My grandmother was a gardener. My grandmother was a strong woman and I believe she could very well have been a tough mother. But I loved her with every fiber of my being. And she loved me. And she was a gardener.

I have always associated her with trumpet vine. Always. She had a glorious trumpet vine just outside her front door. No one used the front door, it was just there. You came in through the back porch. The front of the house was my secret garden. It had the majestic trumpet vine, the multitude of iris and lilies and the whole display of crab apple trees. She had a perfect climbing tree in the back that was my first horse. It had a huge limb that I could sit on and ride over field and fence all day.

Grandma was older when my mother was born, so she was older when I was a child. Eventually she couldn't live on her own because of a bad heart and she came to live with us. My mother resented this greatly and I can understand her point. But my champion was in my own place, where I spent my real life. My grandma was always a wall between me and my mother, until she couldn't do it anymore because she was old and dying. But by this time I was old enough to champion myself.

She was a gardener. She instilled this in my mother and it passed to me. But I don't have a trumpet vine. I believe I need a trumpet vine. All these many years later, I need a trumpet vine to realize my grandmother's garden. To realize the seed she planted in a needy child who cried out to be tended, cultivated and admired. And to honor the gardener who tended the seedling.

3 comments:

  1. Great post. I think I would have liked your grandmother. My aunt did that for me & she was a gardener too. I garden the way she did ~ luxuriantly, rampantly, generously. lol Only way to garden. ;)

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  2. What a wonderful story. Your grandma sounds like a very special woman. Glad I could play a small part in prompting you to write this :-)

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  3. Ganeida, I'm glad for you that you had your aunt. I agree with your assessment on gardening.

    Alexandra, you know how it is. Sometimes the smallest thing will light a spark.

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I really appreciate the concept and sentiment behind awards, but I cannot participate in them anymore. I have too may and I have not got the time to devote to participating properly. To all who have honored me, I am grateful but I don't have seven more things to tell anyone about myself! And I'm a terrible passer-oner.