Modern Hill Woman

Springtime With Goldia

I know spring is finally here when the flowers called tiny bluets start blooming in my yard. I learned that from my mom, but she called them “wet beds.” She may not have known the botanical names of plants, but I’ve always preferred the old-timey names. Her knowledge of plants and ability to grow everything would rival any botanist.

I miss my mom the most in the spring. I still get the urge to call her with a plant or moon phase question, even though she’s been gone over 20 years.

In the last house that Mom lived in, there was a whole room of houseplants of all varieties, bloom colors, and ages. A very fragrant gardenia given to her by her grandmother resided there and lived to be 32 years old. The real stars of her collection were the African violets, with a total of over fifty plants. She loved receiving a violet as a gift but most were propagated from leaf cuttings.

Pinching a leaf or two from a plant on an outing was a common thing for Mom to do.

My sisters took her to the Missouri Botanical Garden in St. Louis one time. As she strolled through, if she saw a plant she liked she’d pinch a leaf, even though there were signs everywhere saying not to do that. My sister warned her they might get arrested, but Mom said she wasn’t hurting a thing and just kept a-pinching.

Mom put out a huge garden every year and preserved the harvest. Every home-canned jar of food was stored in the sawdust cellar, as well as root vegetables, empty jars, and homemade church communion wine.

I still remember the distinct smell of sawdust that assailed your nose as soon as you entered the above ground cellar. It had a dirt floor with shelves from the ground to the ceiling. The walls were packed with sawdust for insulation, and stayed at a cool 52°. Every couple of years, more sawdust was added as it settled.

Mom continued to till and plant her own garden up into her 80s. Apparently, carnations were the only flowers that she didn’t like. We were given strict instructions not to have any at her funeral.