89/90, from roses to peonies

This weekend, a lot changed (leading to some slacking in the blogging department). Most remarkably, a memory that I hold close and recall often was corrected.

My mother and her mother, the grandma who's yard I ran around half naked for the first four years of my life, have been elbow deep in flowers for every early Spring I can remember. On Mother's Day, my sister, dad and I took Mom to a local flower shop to stock up the beds for the summer. Instead of the usual hanging basket, my sister and I sponsored a replacement bleeding heart (my favorite) and hosta.

Walking between the rows, I kept asking questions. I'm always amazed by Mom's ability to look at the plant, pick a name and tell me if I could (mostly like not) keep it alive. Dad decided we could each pick a plant. Chloe and I paced back and forth, crossing off impatiens, violets and pansies; anything that didn't bloom; anything that was white; anything that resulted in a vegetable. (We don't have a garden.)

I got caught up in a three-colored dahlia with petals unlike any I'd ever seen. I was never a dahlia lover, but that may be changing. I added it to the wagon Dad was pulling, next to my sister's Johnny Jump-up. After a week in St. Louis for me and a week in the garage for the dahlia, they'll join the four sprouts I've got going. They'll be transplanted, prayed for and watched meticulously on the hot, wooden deck. I wonder how I'll handle their inevitable death at the end of summer. (Why is anything an annual?)

While Dad pushed the wagon, I touched every plant we passed, asking questions and having them answered by Mom or added to a list to "ask Grandma." I can't wait to ask Grandma, to start my flower-planting and garden growing by calling Grandma with every question and each new bug I find crawling on the leaves.

When I stopped in front of a rose bush, I asked Mom if she ever missed the roses that used to line the length of yard that touched the alley. I often thought about the roses: smelling them, touching them, being afraid of the bees around them, feeling small standing by them, picking off petals that didn't look perfect.

"What roses?" she asked. I was a bit startled. "The roses. By the alley. When I was really little." How could she have forgotten these blooms that meant so much to me?

They were peonies. They were never roses, she explained. They were a line of huge, fragrant peonies that neighbors had (accidentally?) killed with a chemical spray. I felt robbed of a memory. I felt like I had a lot of backtracking to do. I'd built up the roses to Joe, explained that I wanted to recreate the wall of flowers for our little kids in the future. Now what? Stick with roses?

Then I remembered (correctly this time) that I don't even really like roses, not the long-stemmed ones, not the wedding and holiday staples. I love the roses climbing outside my parent's bedroom window, and I love peonies. I love, love peonies. I love the idea of recreating a wall of peonies for my children, with my mom's help.

More gardening to come. More growing, failing and replanting. For now, I'm going to clean all of the plant dirt and rabbit food out of the inside of my car.