Mom’s Marigolds
They first appeared in the Punch ‘n Grow; improbable chutes poking through. They grew and pushed beyond the thin plastic cover and each day the tiny buds soaked in the warm sunlight on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. In wonder then at the daily progress, wondering now where Mom allowed her mind to wander as she stood at that window, washing the dishes from the meal that served ten each evening; her seven children, her husband, her father, herself. A teacher by day; mother every hour. Wife by night. Daughter; always.
When the buds were ready, having outgrown the confines of the small plastic tray, Mom would plant them outside – one row along the length of the short driveway, and then a border around her garden patch out back. The squatty plants with their tender, notched leaves settled and rooted and readied for their summer sprawl. On those early June nights, when the air turned warm, she’d sit on the small cement porch – every few moments the tip of her cigarette brightening like an orange marigold bloom, then fading again into the night. Pall Mall smoke mixing with private thoughts; dissolving and slipping away.
By mid-July the plants had bloomed and doubled their size twice, and again; the flowers a dizzying mix and burst of orange, red and yellow. Mom watered them, deadheaded and kept the hedge tidy. A small patch of earth to tend and care for; it seemed such a straight, simple row then. Only now I see what a winding and surprising path it was to achieve that neat and tidy line.
Of all the things she planted I loved Mom’s marigolds the most; marveled at their fiery colors – especially the deep orange and red, a prelude to autumn’s colors in the heat of summer. Mom’s garden allowed her to wander to a different place; I imagine she thought often about her own parents, their roots in farming. We’re bred to the bone, so the row of flowers or the vegetable patch in the back was certainly first, not second nature.
There would always be a garden in my Mother’s world and there would always be marigolds in the garden; no matter the consistency of the soil, the size of the patch or the state of her health. Autumn’s harvest.
Our birthdays are in November; hers the 11th mine the 19th. In her eulogy for Mom my sister called November the ‘bonus’ month of the harvest and how, when she died on the first of December, Mom had pushed against all odds so as not to pass in our month, keeping it clear of such anniversaries. She’d beaten the cancer’s last play after all, giving each of us an extra season – a bonus no one else was willing to predict or guarantee.
Gone a decade now, the memories are firmly rooted.
Every June I have planted a flat of marigolds, bought from a roadside market, at her grave. I water them and deadhead them throughout the summer. I fetch the water from the single pump at the back of the cemetery and think of my grandfather then, a farm boy turned professional – but always a gardener. Bred to the bone.
The last few seasons have been harsh; excessive heat, torrential rain and the marigolds foundered. Last fall as I pulled the withered roots from their place, long before the bonus month, I thought of the Punch n’ Grow – the slow procession from the windowsill to the small hedge-sized row along the drive. Mom had the patience to start her gardens from seed.
And so, this year, in early March as the temperatures plummeted and another snowstorm blew in, I sat on the floor of my kitchen, planting the seeds for the flat of marigolds that would be ready for transplanting by June. The direct sun on my windowsill and steam in the room each day has been the perfect greenhouse. They’re nearly ready. Next month I’ll give them back to the earth and let them grow the way they will.
We give back to the earth the things we love the most.
- Mother’s Day, 2014
