Each year we are revived and enchanted by the blossoms of spring flowers. The bursts of color scream the end of winter and the air smells fresh. Shades of green in the opened leaves are unlike the color of the trees in summer. Life is new and the blooms rejuvenate me.
Knowing how short spring can be in New England makes me want more before the impending heat of summer arrives.
When we bought our house in Westhampton, there was no yard to speak of, and no lawn. Weeds abounded.
My parents, who lived in the Midwest, would visit us, and my mother, an avid gardener, saw the sparseness outside my door. She had an abundance of vinca, also called periwinkle, at her home in Indiana. She would dig some of it up, put the plants in large, plastic bags and bring it to me when she visited during our planting season. The plants were placed gently under the seat in front of her on the plane.
We planted it along the sidewalk to the house, where it has spread and prospered for many years.
On the return trip, my mother would take ferns that the two of us dug up in the woods for her to plant in her garden at home. Ferns do not grow wild in Indiana and were an expensive purchase at her local greenhouse, so she was heading home with quite a bargain.
My father would tease her since she was the only person on the plane with plastic bags, dirt and plants: a true gardener at heart.
Through the years, Mom would dry seeds from her plants and save some for my siblings and me. I spread her lunaria seeds (Honesty Plant) in the fall. The seeds form in oval seedpods that look like large coins with a translucent shimmer. When the plants bloom in the spring they have beautiful purple flowers. Seeing them in bloom lets me know that my mother is a part of my garden.
My mother died quite a while ago, and after her death my sister and I found packets of dried seeds that she had saved. I spread more lunaria after she died, as well as Dutchman’s breeches, which spreads easily but is never pesty. The flowers look like tiny pairs of pants, which remind me of my mother, in my preschool years, hanging all of our clothes on the clothesline to dry. There they are, little pairs of cream-colored pants, blowing in the breeze on small plants. They are the first flowers I notice when I walk out my basement door: pieces of love from my mother.
For many years I have planted daffodils. A few of the years my oldest son has helped me and we planted over 200 bulbs, but most years the number has been closer to 50. When April and May arrive the leaves under the deciduous trees are ablaze with yellow blossoms. It jolts the senses.
My first daffodils were given to me by Ann Tiffany Muise from Rocky Hill Road, who died a number of years ago. They were divisions from her bulbs and are the earliest of all of my daffodils to make their appearance. These bulbs always bloom, surpassing some of the newer bulbs that are not from divisions. Without fail, they have blossomed diligently, year after year after year. I always think of her when I see their sunny faces.
How can you ever forget someone when they leave something behind that calls out to you?
Whether it’s a flower, a tree, or something made with care by hand, you will think of that person when you walk by or catch it out of the corner of your eye.
Thoughts of loved ones are planted in my garden. At each step I take, I cherish the blooms with each passing glimpse: love’s memories.
Lynn K. Cooper lives in Westhampton.