Perennials by Julie Cantrell

Author:Julie Cantrell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2017-09-22T04:00:00+00:00

With his hand now entwined in Mother’s, Chief leads us through the grounds of Rowan Oak. He continues to point out various plants, adding sweet stories one by one, and I take notes to share with Fisher.

Near the gazebo, Bitsy eyes the large camellia and tells the kids about their earliest hide-and-seek games. “Mary Evelyn chased a rabbit from the boxwood once.” She offers a heartfelt smile. “You thought that was where the Easter Bunny lived. Remember?”

Trip gives his sister grief for this, but his teasing stops when Mother suggests we take a few family photos by the barn. She points toward the structure’s green roof, a contrast to the rough-hewn logs and chalky chinking. We each take turns behind the camera, capturing various group photos before moving north of the tenant house where the catalpa tree rises wide and sturdy like a wizened groundskeeper. I fiddle with the English ivy that has crept its way from roots to branches, just as Chief warned. The effect provides a textured backdrop, ideal for a few more snapshots. When a considerate tourist offers to take a photo of our entire family, Mother beams, overjoyed, as we all gather close together for a few takes.

Once the tourist has returned the camera, I nudge the others toward Bailey’s Woods where ancient oaks and hickories mark the trail. The trunks are so thick, Trip and I can barely link our arms around them. “I challenge you to find the oldest.”

Trip accepts, wrapping trunk after trunk, trying to gauge the girth of sweet gums, beeches, and oaks of all sorts—red, white, and post. By the third or fourth tree, Bitsy shouts a warning: “Don’t come complaining to me when you get poison ivy!”

He keeps at the hunt while Mary Evelyn balances her way across a fallen hickory. Having collected a few pods from a crape myrtle, I seize this opportunity to share our childhood poem about grandmother’s purse, teaching my niece to pop open the seams in search of treasure. While she may be too old for ghost stories, she smiles when she finds the floral handkerchief and gold within, proof nobody outgrows such simple wonders.

The six of us share memories until the trail’s end at the university museum. Then we follow the peaceful wooded path back toward Faulkner’s house, weaving past yet another honeysuckle patch. The strong fragrance prompts my eyes to water, but I snap two white flowers, stealing them from the oversize bumblebees who surround the near-twenty-foot vine with a constant hum.

“White flowers are my favorite,” Mary Evelyn says. I want to add a Chief-like homily, tell her I need her in my life as much as the flowers need the bees, somehow convince her she needs me too. But I don’t dare push the boundaries for fear Bitsy will slam me out again.

“You know how to drink the honey?” I pass her one of the blooms.

When Mary Evelyn shakes her head, I mourn for her—so out of touch with nature, unfamiliar with even this basic childhood milestone.

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