My father’s mother was a Mississippi farm wife. One of the most poignant memories of my childhood is my watching her on her knees, wearing an old blue faded sunbonnet, weeding her iris garden. I wanted so much to help her, but she was not the sort of grandmother to encourage anyone to poach on her precious time alone with her flowers.
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| Grandma Stewart's Irises |
Long after her death, I visited my Aunt Mary, who had taken some of the irises from her mother’s garden and planted them at her own place in Tennessee, where they had multiplied into enormous beds of deep purple, light lavender, and multi-colored wonder. Aunt Mary gave some of each color to me, and I planted them at my house in Suwannee. Then, when I moved to my current house, I lugged irises along with me, leaving plenty for the enjoyment of the people who’d bought my house.
Yesterday I was out in the front yard, filling the bird feeder, and I saw that several of Grandma’s irises had shot up those distinctive tall stems, topped with furled buds. This is what some of them looked like the spring after I moved into this house. Now these particular ones have pink dianthus growing around their feet
I hope my bees will enjoy them as much as I do when they finally bloom again this year.
One thing Fran is grateful for right now:
My grandchildren, who are always welcome to share my joys.
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