by jphilo | Mar 18, 2011 | Family
My husband is a wise man. He has yet to say a word about the four, count ‘em, four mason jars sitting in front of the east windows, hogging daylight.
He hasn’t commented about how the jars are crammed with geranium slips or how the wintered over geraniums, from whence the slips came, now look like skinned rats in their flower pots.
He never complained about the dozens of gallon milk jugs in the basement full of last summer’s rain water, some used to water the potted geraniums through the winter and much it now slowly evaporating from the mason jars chuck full of geranium slips.
Yes, Hiram is a wise man. He knows better than to editorialize when I go on one of my heritage horticultural tears. This month’s tear is all about Grandma Josie Hess’s heritage geranium, the sainted family flower given to Grandma Josie by her mother, Cora Newell. Grandma Josie gave slips to her children (including my mother), who gave them to her three children, one of whom (that would be me) has become slightly obsessed with propagating the sainted plant.
To tell you the truth, I’m pretty pleased with myself for remembering to cut down the wintered-over geraniums this early and setting the slips in water. Usually I think of it in late April when it’s too late for either the old plants to recover from pruning or for the new slips to root before it’s time to plant them outdoors. But this year I thought of it in March. A minor miracle considering how forgetful I’ve been this winter.
Come to think of it, Hiram hasn’t said a word about my minor memory miracle or my more normal forgetfulness. At least I can’t remember if he’s made any comments about either one.
In any case, my husband is a wise man. Almost a saint. Right up there with the sainted family flower.
Quiet.
Lovely.
Hardy.
Enduring.
Patient.
Faithful.
No wonder I love them both so much.
by jphilo | Oct 2, 2008 | Daily Life
Over a week ago, I scheduled an appointment with my husband, “Next Wednesday,” I proclaimed fiercely, “I get three hours of your time.” He looked slightly wild-eyed as I exacted a promise from him.
Wednesday is his day off, and he usually fills it with middle school youth group work, guitar-making, lawn mowing, whatever. Since it’s the only day when the two off us can do yard work, most years I don’t think ahead and nab a spot on his calendar before his time is committed elsewhere. Then, about mid-November, I kick myself because I didn’t salvage the Grandma Newell heritage geranium or bring any other plants inside before a killing frost.
Normally, it’s not such a big deal because Mom took cuttings from her Grandma Newell geraniums in the fall and gave me new ones in the spring. But not this year. With her at my brother’s for the winter, it’s up to me to tend the geraniums. Hence, my overbearing attitude when scheduling yard work with my hubby.
Yesterday was a great day for yard work – sunny, no wind, cool. We started at nine o’clock, weeding the flower beds which have been sadly neglected since Anne left for college. I found a sack of daffodil bulbs Mom gave me earlier in the summer, so Hiram dug a trench and I planted them, too. Finally, we took down the hanging pots and transplanted asparagus fern, vinca vine and the heritage geraniums. For now they’re all on the porch, adjusting to semi-indoor conditions before they come inside for the winter.
By noon we were done. Hiram thought the fence and all the other places where the pots had been hanging looked bare. But I focused more on the flower beds which look so much better, I can quit closing my eyes every time I walk by them.
Yesterday was a good day, but a sad day, too. I can’t deny the approaching winter or the change in Mom’s health which don’t allow me to rely on her anymore. But as we got in the car to go out to lunch, as a sort of celebration, the fall mum by the fence caught my eye. It’s the only mum of its kind that survived a late frost two springs ago. It not only survived, it’s thriving, spectacular.
The sight of it cheered me and gave me hope. If it could make it in spite of the killing frost, maybe the Grandma Newell geraniums will survive my erratic care. Maybe they’ll bloom for another generation or more when I entrust them to Anne’s flower and beauty-loving hands. Mom, I know, would like that.
