We have a ritual in my family; every Mother’s Day, my mother, grandmother and I take the winding country road out to the Cowiche Creek Nursery, and we buy blooming plants. Then we go to each of our houses in turn, take up our trowels, and plant them all together. Pansies, geraniums, moss roses, and columbines. Delphiniums, peonies, snapdragons, and alyssums. We buy according to whimsy, without a plan, knowing that there is always room in our gardens for a few more flowers. As we shop, we discuss the merits of each species, the esthetics of the different hues.
“Petunias? Yuck! They look so bedraggled when they get wet.”
“Ew, not pink. That’s such a girlie color. Get the dark purple one.”
“Well, OK. You like this one better? What about this maroon one over here?”
Any gardener would tell you that cut flowers are fine, but actual plants- living, growing plants- are a much better symbol of daughterly affection. Annual plants that brighten the sweet summer days, or perennials that change with the seasons, but never die. Both represent a facet of the bond that grows between mothers and daughters. Both are apt.
Four years ago, I moved to South Korea to take a job teaching English. I spoke to my mother several times a week by phone, and called grandma a couple of times each month. As the days began to lengthen towards my first Korean spring, and the land shook off the frost and snow of winter, my fingers started to itch for the feel of good dark soil. Constrained by the tiny, windowless studio apartment my employer had provided, I despaired of being able to scratch my green-thumb itch.
One Saturday in May, I called my mother. “Well,” she said, “My mom and I are going out to the nursery tomorrow. Do you want me to get anything honor of you?” “Oh. That’s right, it’s that time, isn’t it? No thanks, Mom. It wouldn’t be the same, you know.” I felt a leaden weight of homesickness sinking into my stomach, and had to let Mom chat for awhile without answering so that she wouldn’t hear my voice shaking.
We got off the line, and I went out to do my weekly vegetable shopping at the outdoor market. And there for the first time, I saw a beautiful spread of potted flowers for sale. They spilled across the sidewalk, ran amok on the market steps, and peeped from the baskets of passing shoppers.
“I’ll just get a couple,” I thought, “They can go on the outdoor staircase. I’m sure the neighbors won’t mind.” Carefully I selected a couple of yellow and purple pansy plants, then a couple more. “Why not six? That’s a nice number.”
Just as I had decided that six plants would suffice, an elderly woman of approximately my grandmother’s age and height approached and gave me a big smile, then indicated that I should get a pink azalea. “Hm, pink? No way. That’s such a girlie color!” I told her, knowing full well that she didn’t speak English. I selected a pair of purple and white columbines, and held them up for her to inspect. She shrugged, then smiled in resignation. I smiled back, wished her a very Happy Mother’s Day and went to pay the vendor.
