During a recent nursery visit to replace trees and plants
lost to the western Kansas drought and heat, the greenhouse owner snapped off a king-sized
rose bloom and handed it to me, and magically, as soon as I caught its scent my
grandma was there beside me and an entire era presented itself for review.
We grew up across the gravel driveway from my paternal
grandparents, on a sweet little farm in the middle of a great expanse of wheat fields and pastures.
There were cows and chickens and a big barn populated by sleepy cats, but the
best part of the entire place was Grandma and Grandpa’s garden. It
spanned acres, and included nearly anything organic you could name ---
potatoes, carrots, onions, radishes, rhubarb, asparagus, sweet corn, peas,
green beans, turnips (which I thought were yucky), strawberries and tomatoes
(both of which we were allowed to eat straight off the vine and warm from the
sun, taking advantage of the salt shaker Grandma thoughtfully kept next to the
tomato vines); fruit trees including apple, cherry, and peach --- and every
kind of flowering thing. Peonies, mock orange, baby's breath, tulips,
daisies, columbine, cosmos, daffodils, lilies, phlox, snapdragons ... and
roses. That list is by no means complete.
All of this was surrounded by hedges that my grandpa kept
trimmed and orderly -- a tall one across the back, with openings into the
orchard beyond, and shorter hedges along the front and sides, with shaped
entryways into the three main sections of the garden. Back in the corner,
close to the cattle pens, grew watermelons and cantaloupe, sweet and
succulent. And a half-mile away, next to an irrigation engine, was a
colossal watermelon patch that produced enough for all summer and into the fall, including a
rollicking annual community watermelon feed.
Outside the confines of the hedges sat my grandparents’
imposing two-story farmhouse, filled with antiques and decades of living, surrounded
by a cool green yard with a hammock stretched between two huge cottonwood trees
and a rope swing hung from a sturdy branch. The clotheslines where we
helped Grandma "hang out a nice wash" as she invariably declared it
to be, stretched across the lush grass.
There was a cement and
brick milk house where our dad and grandpa filtered the milk from the cows,
skimmed off the heavy cream, and left it all to cool in troughs of fresh
running water brought up by the windmill anchored next to the building. A
battered tin cup always hung on a pipe so anyone needing a quick pick-me-up could
pump a fresh drink of water any time. That water was life-giving to the
farmer coming in off the tractor, the farm wife with an apron full of
freshly-picked veggies, or the farm kid tired and sweaty from a hot game of
hide-and-seek in the yard. We (my sisters and brother and I, along with
cousins and neighbor kids) spent long hours in that yard and garden, held
countless tea parties under the towering twin conifers set in the middle of the
garden proper, and built more than one fort among the acres of fruit trees and
evergreens out back. And on occasion, we worked.
When I think of my grandparents, he shows up in overalls and
she's wearing a homemade house dress and apron, the apron tied at the waist and
pinned to her dress at the shoulders. And she never went out, hoe in
hand, without her sunbonnet, also handmade. A real lady had creamy white
skin, and although Grandma never managed to achieve that standard of beauty
(having been born, for starters, with distinctly olive coloring), she
tried. Grandpa, too, protected his head, with a well-worn felt cowboy hat
that he sweated through in nothing flat.
Thus they went forth every day equipped for work, intent upon it, dedicated to
it. Those luscious fruits and vegetables out there in the hot sun were
LIFE, and life doesn't wait. They did their best to corral us, to slow
our head-long summer romp through the garden, to foist sunbonnets upon us and
thrust hoes and rakes into our grubby little hands. I remember thinking I
really SHOULD help out more, take more of an interest, learn something while I
was at it. But the fork in the big tree behind the milk house was calling
my name, my book was still stashed there from the day before, and I was hot and
tired and needed a drink of ice cold water from the well .... and I never quite
found time to own responsibility and discipline in any discernible
way.
There was one time of year, though, when we ALL pitched in
and did our part. I’m chagrined to say,
it had a lot to do with the fact that we got PAID for our efforts, but, well
....
Every year in the days preceding Memorial Day, my grandparents would cut huge
armloads of tightly-budded peonies from the garden, wrap them in wet burlap,
and store them in crocks full of well water in the cool and spacious
cement-lined root cellar. Other hardy flowers, too, found their way into
crocks, awaiting that early-morning observance at cemeteries around the
countryside. Our job as grandchildren was to take dull paring knives and
snip daisy bouquets, in counts of twenty-five, band them with rubber and put
them into jars in the cellar. It was always a treat to go from the sunny
garden to the damp coolness of "the pit," and Grandma and
Grandpa paid us an astounding 25 cents per bouquet, a fortune! Do you have
any idea what a treasure trove a quarter -- let alone several pocket-burning
dollars -- would buy at Woolworth's, McClellan's or Duckwall's in the
1950's? We were RICH!
And we did somehow have a sense of having contributed to something very special.
The day before Memorial Day, which was known as Decoration Day back then, and very
early the morning of, neighbors and strangers from surrounding areas started pulling
into the drive to collect the big flower baskets and smaller bundles they'd
pre-ordered. And many, knowing there was always "extra,"
stopped by just to see what they might pick up. The air had a special
freshness about it and people invariably seemed happy and intent on their
mission.
I remember feeling so proud of my grandma for her ability to grow and
arrange flowers into spectacular gifts, and a connectedness to all those people
coming to embrace her talents. I felt firmly tied to all the generations
being honored on those Memorial weekends, and I still remember snippets of
stories from the conversations I overheard.
After all the paying customers had retrieved their floral offerings, Grandma
let us kids have the leftover daisy bundles to place on the graves of the
unnamed and unremembered babies from the 1800's in our small community cemetery
a mile from the farm. It always felt like we'd done something amazing by
honoring those brief little lives, and the yearly military ceremony conducted
by aging war heroes in a sometimes haphazard and ill-fitting assortment of
service garb lent added poignancy .
If my grandparents were here now and could somehow read my
heart (which I always felt they could), they would be gratified to know how
much I actually DID learn through their example and the privilege of living in
their shadow. Things like hard work, respect for the living and the dead,
a certain acceptance that no matter what happens life goes on ... these things
have stood me in good stead over all the years since Grandma and Grandpa left
us.
As with most farmers of that generation, indeed most people in general,
they never became wealthy. But the things they passed along to us are
beyond price ... and well worth consciously appreciating as another Memorial
Day rolls around.
