The Ultimate Gardener by Charlie Nardozzi

Author:Charlie Nardozzi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
ISBN: 9780757397646
Publisher: Health Communications, Inc.
Published: 2010-08-29T00:00:00+00:00

Grandmother’s

Flowers

By Shirley Dunn Perry

My grammy Stella was the fastest blueberry picker in Grey-wood. She was also the one whom people ran to when someone was hurt or wanted to know the weather. Sometimes neighbors stopped in just to hear her stories. She was a backwoods woman, and she had the sight. Her garden was all the wildflowers that grew around her house and community: roses, daisies, asters, chicory, dandelions, and hundreds more.

Grammy told me about everything.What the crow said. When the rain was coming before there was a cloud in the sky. How to put spiderwebs on cuts that wouldn’t stop bleeding. She talked to me like I was a grown-up, not some kid who should be quiet.

We’d go blueberry picking, and Grammy always knew where the best berries were. We’d walk up in the pasture, and all of a sudden she’d stop, her head would turn to the left or right, and then she’d take off. She never got out of sight, but she was following a trail that I couldn’t see.

I carried a small lard can with a handle. It was shiny, and the sun reflected on it like a mirror. Grammy took two large galvanized water buckets. She’d call out to me, “Keep picking,” when she saw me lying on the grass, blueberry juice all over my face. In the end though, she helped me fill my can, rounding it off at the top so it shone like a blue light.

Walking home was a long way. My can was heavy but I didn’t mind. I was proud of my full can of berries and my grammy.

When we got to her house she’d put the kettle on to make tea. I drank water and ate one of her soft and gingery molasses cookies. I could only eat one, as they were the size of a small plate.

In the spring I always picked violets and mayflowers. They smelled sweet. I was careful not to break the stems too close to the flower heads as Grammy had taught me. With her rough hands, she’d tie a little string around their stems and put them in a glass of water. The way she touched and looked at those flowers made my heart beat soft and gentle.

I didn’t go to her funeral. I had moved far away and was too busy. I had walked out of the backwoods thinking I wanted sophistication. I hadn’t seen her for years, and the last time I saw her she didn’t seem to recognize me.

In my prayers now, I send her flowers—big, white calla lilies. I see her take them tenderly. I feel her love and forgiveness for me. I sense her blessings.With each flower I gaze at, I send her thanks.

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