Growing Hope

I walk down the hallway of our new home. Morning light streams through the windows. I look out to our patio and see the pink hibiscus laden with blossoms. The hibiscus takes me to my mom. 

I wonder, “When are Mom and Dad coming to see our house?” I wondered for a few steps, like I really thought about it. This may not seem out of the ordinary unless you know that my mom has been gone almost 15 years and my dad has been gone 2 years. Then I remembered and felt a tinge of grief. 

My mom loved flowers, roses in particular. She planted rose bushes at every home in which she lived. She remembered her daughter with a specially chosen rose bush. She loved nurturing flowers. Come to think of it, she watched her mother do the same.

My mom’s mom, Genevieve, lived on an Idaho cattle ranch at a time before many chores were automated. Genevieve helped with the cattle drive, washed by hand, cooked from scratch, made her own soap, drew patterns for the dresses she sewed and raised 6 babies. Days were long and filled with physical work. 

Even after all that, she put effort into things that were not necessary for survival. Things whose only function was to add beauty. She grew geraniums, daisies, roses, poppies, petunias, pansies, and peonies in a garden surrounding her home. 

Genevieve was watering her flower garden when she passed away. Her husband found her sitting with her back against the house, water coming from the hose at her side. She loved her family most, but I think she may have loved flowers next. Once she wrote, “Each summer I raised a large garden. Later it became my heart and soul.”

My pink hibiscus brought thoughts of my mom. The local almond and pistachio orchards, vineyards and citrus orchards, strawberry and artichoke fields bring thoughts of my dad. Although he was raised on a dairy farm, his interests included agriculture. My dad would have loved to see how things grow here, in a valley that supplies the country with 25% of its fruits and vegetables and supplies the world with 80% of its almonds. 

My foray into gardening was unintentional. Our new yard is filled with mature plants, many of which don’t grow in the places we’ve lived previously. Although at times frustrating, mostly it’s been fun to learn how to care for the plants. Sometimes the weeds have been obvious, but other times, I’ve used Google Lens to distinguish weeds from plants. 

Where flowers bloom so does hope

Lady Bird Johnson

In the spring I was delighted to watch a cluster of brown bulbs sprout green shoots and then blossom into Easter lilies. And long green grasses bear blue flowers in the summer. The tiny white flowers on a vine covering a rain spout smell like heaven. Turns out the ivy is jasmine. Everything blooms. Even the prickly cactus in the backyard grew a delicate pink bloom for a couple of days. 

I got a plumeria from my father-in-law. When he gave it to me, it was a 3’ long stick in a pot. After a few months, it sprouted dozens of long green leaves, then smooth white flowers, the kind used in Hawaiian leis. When I water the plant, I stick my nose in the blooms because they smell like paradise. 

In the front yard, a small tree with thorns was getting out of hand. I pruned the limbs until I liked the shape of the tree. I googled and learned to do this in the winter before the heat would stress the tree. I was surprised when a single full-grown lemon appeared. I think that means we’re accidental citrus growers. 

It’s not just caring for the plants. There is something so satisfying about filling a bucket with weeds, roots and all. Something satisfying about clearing a little bit of soil. Or pruning a tree. Helping something progress and take shape.

Last year we harvested a few artichokes, some strawberries and a handful of pomegranates. The garden is overrun with oregano and spearmint, which smells lovely. But you can only use so much spearmint. So we pulled the spearmint and kept the rosemary. We tilled the soil, prepping it for something new. My husband and I are rookie gardeners and I’m excited to experiment. 

Today when I looked at my hibiscus and lemon tree, I remembered. I think I always will.

I’ll remember people who dug and pulled and watered and pruned. People who knew how to work and how to create. People who understood the law of the harvest. Who nurtured living things not only for their function, but also for their beauty.

I’ll remember my people.