When I was little, we often ate Sunday dinner at Grandma and Grandpa's
after church. While Mom and Grandma worked in the kitchen, the African
violets filling the window added their splashes of color in the background.
So did the odd assortment of margarine tubs and cottage cheese cartons that
Grandma used to catch water from the pots' drainage holes. The African
violets fascinated me. Their name evoked vague images of faraway places, and
their fuzzy leaves set them apart from their smooth-leafed companions.
With dinner cleanup out of the way, Grandma shared news of her plants
with us. She led the tour of the living room and enclosed front porch, where
large windows provided ample sunlight. Grandma showed off additions to her
collection, pointed out the plants starting to bloom, and told about cutting
back or repotting others. Sometimes Grandma took us outside to circle the
yard, and she patiently named the plants for me, giving special attention to
those that were blooming then. She always asked if I wanted to cut some
flowers to take home with me.
When Grandma started new plants, she placed leaves in a glass of water
and put them in the company of the African violets in her kitchen window.
Seeing those hairy roots grow from the stems provided one of my earliest
science lessons. On those visits when Grandma offered to give me a
"start" of my own, we descended to the dark and slightly creepy
basement to find a home for my baby plant among her extensive stash of
plastic containers and empty flower pots.
If someone dared to ask Grandma for her secret to success with
houseplants, she replied with mock seriousness. "Well, they say you're
supposed to talk to plants if you want them to be healthy. So I say, 'Listen
here, you'd better grow now, or else!'" Then she'd laugh, a raspy sound
that often ended in coughing due to her asthma.
For a while during grade school and junior high, I daydreamed about
owning a plant shop when I grew up. I took some horticulture classes in
college and planned for a time to make it my major, but my interests turned
elsewhere. A cousin did become a floral designer, and for Grandma's funeral,
she decorated a wreath with small pots of silk African violets, a skein of
yarn, and crochet hooks--things that defined Grandma to those of us who
loved her.
Not long after Grandma's death, my husband and I visited the island of
Nevis in the West Indies. The size of the poinsettias and mother-in-law's
tongue growing wild amazed me, and I was saddened to think I couldn't share
photos of them with the woman who had taught me their names.
Since then, memories of Grandma bloom with the daffodils and Easter
lilies in spring. Begonias and geraniums whisper her name in summertime
breezes. Mums remind me of Grandma amid the rustling of leaves in fall, and
Christmas cactus and poinsettias bring her near during the holidays. But the
African violets that grace my kitchen window now (some of them brought from
Grandma's after her death) are my ever-present reminder that she is always
with me through her indelible influences on my life.
Linda Reynolds is a freelance writer whose articles have appeared online
at various sites. Linda also is a book reviewer and staff writer for Women
on Writing, www.womenonwriting.com.
She is preparing to launch her own web site, Edifying Entertainment at www.edifyingentertainment.com.
Linda grew up in Southern Illinois and now lives in Texas with her husband,
three children, and assorted plants. You can contact Linda at lindakreynolds@attbi.com.
