Dear Mother, All Flowers Remind Me Of You

My mama never liked cut flowers best.

Most of you know that my mom's a composer, and a pretty darn amazing one at that. What many of you don't know is that she loves flowers. The home in which I grew up is situated between fairly large front and back yards. When we moved in, most of the property was covered in tons and tons of river-rock, Colorado heavy clay, a bit of grass, and weed-trees. Poplars are quite lovely for shade, but when it comes to raking in the fall or trying to keep them from coming up through your lawn, they tend to outlive their welcome within about... oh... their entire lifespans.

My dad worked hard to provide a living for our family substantial enough to allow my mom to stay home with the kids. But they certainly weren't rich- not by a long shot. My mom taught piano lessons from her little spinet (yes people, Sally DeFord has owned the same little spinet, and only that little spinet, for as long as I can remember) for some extra cash, but I know they made a lot of sacrifices and wise financial choices to stay out of excess debt. One of the choices they made was to be a do-it-yourself family. Mom sewed clothes, dad finished the basement, and together as a family (with mom and dad bearing the real weight of the work) we transformed those big, rocky, weedy yards into a little, flowery piece of Heaven.

I remember going to the xeriscape garden with her and waiting... and waiting... and waiting... while she talked to gardeners there. I remember walking the iris garden at the library. I remember watching her scour her bulb and seed catalogs. I remember the homemade mini-greenhouse she and my dad concocted in the basement, where she started her seeds before planting time so they would be strong enough to weather the Colorado climate when it came time. I remember watching her cry at the window when a hailstorm or a Rodent of Unusual Size (aka deer) devastated her pretty flowers that she had so carefully brought to life. I remember her letting me plant some Hollyhocks, and teaching my baby brother how to plant and care for his snapdragons. I remember her joy at her first crocuses and hyacinths and daffodils and tulips of each Spring. And I remember her hard, hard work.

My mother's gardening taught me that when you work hard, you sometimes get flowers. And sometimes you work hard and a hailstorm comes along and strips off the buds before you even know you were ready to bloom. But also that there's always another Spring- always a chance to regrow, to blossom again; and that one unexpectedly late frost or bulb-ninja squirrel should never prevent us from working hard again for the next flowering season. She taught me that when we work together, we can accomplish vastly more than one of us alone. Mom taught me that a Hollyhock can't help where it's planted, but it can choose to bloom where the gardener places it anyway. She taught me that a master gardener considers the placement of each little seed: the gardener knows what the seed can become, and knows where it needs to start out to reach its potential. The gardener knows that different plants have different functions and, properly placed and nurtured, they can complement each other into glorious harmony. Mama taught me that sometimes a plant has to be cut back, or the withered blooms removed, or choking weeds whacked, in order for it to flourish.

I'm thinking you can see where I'm going here. Every year for Mother's Day, growing up, we kids would go out with our dad and find our Mum a potted chrysanthemum plant, which she would re-pot and carefully place somewhere in her gardens. I think she never liked cut flowers best for a few reasons- once they're cut, they die; once they're cut, you pretty much keep them to yourself; once they're cut, it's inevitable they'll eventually be thrown away. I think she liked gifts that could stay with her- gifts that kept on living and blooming, so she could share them. She still does that- uses her gifts to beautify the world around her.

She always has: flowers or otherwise.