Pergola

Winter, 1984, I wore a red puffy dress, white patent leather shoes and white itchy tights. My blond hair was turning a brown shade. The strands were fine, soft, and cropped to the bottom of my ears. There were three steps you had to descend to reach the lower level of the family room. White shag carpeting coated the steps and floor. I stood in the hallway, trying to work my way down the steps. My buggy little legs were too small to step naturally down them like the adults. I squatted on the top step and pushed my leg down the fluffy white carpet. There was a flash. Mom took a picture. I pushed my other leg down the step and sat on my bottom. I scooted down the steps, one by one. I was three.

I loved the white shag. It was pretty against the green Christmas tree that stood by the window. Presents overflowed the bottom of the tree. I sat on the shag while my family looked merry around the tree. I laced my fingers around the long bits of carpet. The soft material was heaven to the touch.

All I remembered that Christmas day at Grandma and Grandpa’s house was the carpet. Sitting on the carpet was insignificant, but it was the only strong memory I held of the first Christmas I remembered.

In 1995 the shag carpet was replaced. Blond wood floors with copper moldings stretched across the family and living rooms and the kitchen. Grams was so excited about the change. She stood in the kitchen looking at Mom and me sitting on the couch in the living room telling us all about it.

Another addition was added to the house. French doors replaced sliding glass doors. The above ground pool was gone. A gray pergola was added to the back of the house. Large windows enclosed the deck. Grams gave us a tour of the new addition. She exclaimed with excitement that this was her favorite room to sit in. A 70’s style orange flowered couch was up against the wall with knitted pillows tossed onto it. That was where she sat and read. She explained how the sun came through the windows to warm her.

Even though the pergola wasn’t built very well, I still had an attachment to it. The room was filled with Grams’ love and enjoyment. I liked walking into the kitchen and seeing her through the windows of the French doors sitting on the couch with her two cockapoos on either side of her dranking coffee from the mug with apples on it.

I missed the shag carpeting though.

Eating Grapefruit under the Summer Sun

Summer, 1988, Mom and I visited Grams and Gramps. I made this card for Grams made of green construction paper. I cut out a heart from white construction paper and pasted it to the folded green one. I held a slender crayon, pinching all of my little fingers at the neck of it, the improper way. The oily texture rubbed off onto the white paper. I love you Grammy! I looked at the words I wrote. Poetry. It said it all.

Surprisingly, Grams kept it. But after learning that Grams kept every single card she was ever given, it didn’t seem that unbelievable that she kept my simple, makeshift card. I was honored that she had kept it all this time.

Grapefruit trees were overgrown in her backyard. Grams led Mom and I to the side of the yard. Fat tender grapefruits splattered along the cement. Gramps stayed inside. He wasn’t a part of this and I wondered why. This was our thing, Grams, Mom, and mine.

I reached down to pick up a grapefruit, but Mom told me no. I saw the grapefruits in the trees and my little arms couldn’t reach them. It made sense to me to eat the ones on the ground. I could reach those. Mom picked one up. The skin was cracked all the way down the middle. The insides oozed out, a sticky, sweet and sour mess. Some of the sticky mess was on the ground where the grapefruit had been. Tinny black bugs crawled in and out of the goo. Mom tossed it aside. She made her point.

Grams pulled out a long green pole out of the tin shed. An orange basket with prongs forming claws over the top sat on top of the pole. She demonstrated how to use the fruit picker. She positioned the dangling grapefruit over the orange basket, hooked the prongs around the stem and plucked the fruit right off the branch. My eyes widened and my lips uncoiled into a brilliant smile. She took it out of the basket, peeled off the skin and we took chunks of grapefruit into our hands. The juice dripped from my fingers. I took a bite of the fruit and puckered my lips from the sour taste. I shut my eyes and fresh tears trickled down my cheeks. I kept eating it. The juice escaped from my mouth and ran down my chin. I wiped it with my sticky hand. It didn’t help. So I wiped my hand on my shirt and then wiped my chin with my now clean hand.

The sun streaming through the tops of the trees and the heat of the summer made that afternoon perfect. Being outside on that summer day watching Grams and Mom laugh at me (I didn’t know why) made the grapefruit taste that much better. Even though I hated the bitter taste, in an odd way it was delicious.

The next morning, we had the option of having grapefruit for breakfast. I was craving scrambled eggs and turkey bacon like we had the first morning Mom and I spent there that summer. Frosted Flakes, Kix, and Cheerios were my other options besides the grapefruit. Grams sliced a grapefruit in half and put the two halves in two bowls. She placed one bowl in front of Gramps and the other in front of an empty chair, her seat. Gramps took the sugar bowl from the center of the table and took the lid off. He took the tinny spoon inside the sugar bowl and scooped out a mound of sugar. He moved the spoon toward his bowl, a trail of white grains lined the plastic tablecloth. He loaded up the grapefruit, scooping spoonful after spoonful. The sugar melted into the pink supple fruit as if it were thirsty.

I sat in the chair next to Gramps watching him. You can eat it with sugar, I thought. I asked for some grapefruit. My legs dangled wildly when Grams put a bowl of grapefruit in front of me. I held my spoon in my little fist. I grabbed the sugar bowl and took off the lid. I used the teaspoon in my fist to scoop out the sugar, much bigger than the tiny one shoved into the white grains. I sprinkled a teaspoon of sugar onto the fruit and it drank the white grains quickly. I stuck my spoon into the fruit. Struggling to work the first piece onto my spoon, I finally popped it into my mouth. The sour taste was strong, but the sugar started to overpower the bitterness. I puckered my lips. I shut my eyes. I swallowed. This grapefruit thing would take me a while to get used to.

Eating Watermelon after a Summer Day’s Work

Summer, 2005, the whole family gathered at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Cheer was present, but a sense of weakness filled the atmosphere. I didn’t understand it then and I think I didn’t even realize; Grams was getting weaker. Her petite frame appeared smaller. Yet, her arms still hugged and her fingers still tickled, counting ribs.

Counting ribs is what she called it. She’d tickle me while counting how many ribs I had. The longer I kept from laughing, the more ribs I had. I can still picture her dark eyes and unfurling lips. Her teeth showed when she smiled. The look on her face was one of attack, a playful attack. Even in my mid-twenties, it was thrilling. My body still coiled with anticipation of her tickle attack.

My cousins, from the Midwest, two strong, loving guys, put their hearts into pulling weeds which overtook the plants and flowers. I and the rest of the family did the same. We yanked at big stocks that were rooted far into the ground. Tree branches snapped and bombarded the walkways. The molding birdbath sat in the center of the yard, dry. We hacked at dead branches, swept decaying fruit, and discarded lifeless fallen leaves. After a day, the yard was cleared. But the plants and flowers were weak.

Grams carved watermelon with a dull knife. The scent of watery sweetness filled the air. Popcorn popped in two microwaves that sat at opposite ends of the kitchen. The microwaves sang, “We’re done,” and Grams took out the steamy bags of popcorn and handled them with care as she passed them along to everyone in the living room. Bowls of watermelon were distributed next.

My first bite of watermelon savored in my mouth as I looked around the room. The last sight I saw of the whole family together in that living room; a light meal; our last dinner as a whole family in that room. First, I thought, “Grams and Gramps sure do eat lightly these days.” After a few moments passed, my thought changed, “Grams might not have the energy to cook like she used to.”

Yellow in a Sea of Red

Grams’ passing was a void which weighed upon the family. It was a foreign land walking through the house filled with her furniture, her collectables, and her clothes. I walked down the hallway, once musty and warm, now musty and cold. The second door on my left was ajar and I pushed it open with the tips of my fingers, like when you handle an egg, you don’t want the shell to break. I walked inside my grandparents’ room, opened the closet doors and was confronted by a pungent smell. The spicy scent of Red Door perfume stained all her clothes. I reached for the sleeve of one of her many red sweaters and pressed my face into it, not crying. I breathed in the fabric, the perfume…her. Going through her clothes and getting rid of them was a little like being in a fairytale, a nightmare, really. It wasn’t real.

Next, Mom and I sorted through her jewelry. Grams had a lot of beaded necklaces, vibrant colors. And she had some classic pieces as well. One necklace gave me a strong feeling as I picked it up. It was a silver heart pendant, so small and simple that most wouldn’t find it valuable, but it was to me. I asked if I could keep it and Mom said yes. I wore it daily, the silver pendant hanging from my neck—Grams’ heart.

Mom made dinner for Grandpa and me that night. She made pasta. The warm steam rising from the pot filled the kitchen, once was warm to cook in, now felt empty and unwelcoming. The house I knew so well was becoming a stranger’s home.

Mom asked me to pick some roses from the rose bushes in front of the stone house. Grams’ thriving rose bushes. I couldn’t do it. I held clippers in my hand, confronting the red roses. The sea of red waved as the wind breezed by. The petals were plump. They looked content. Cutting a few to display in a vase seemed to be a disturbance. If I clipped even just one rose from the sea of red I would disturb their peace.

I sighed. I laced my fingers around one of the roses and directly behind it was a bright yellow rose. I looked in, out, and around the bushes to see if there were any more variety of colors, but there wasn’t. All of the roses were red, except one, the bright yellow one smiling at me. It’s Grams, I thought, she came back as a rose. To me, that yellow rose was her way of telling me, I’m still here.

Drawing My First Plant

On page 17 of Flower Guide is a painting of a Cat-tail and the origins of the herb. It is such a simple plant, the lines, the color.

As a child I drew pictures of stick figures, blobs, or abstract shapes that were supposed to be my mom's face or other things. In the first grade I learned how to grip a pencil more firmly and developed shapes that actually represented what they were supposed to be. I practiced creating the real shape of my mom's face.

Then I ventured into tracing people in my picture books and chapter books that had sparing black and white drawings in-between pages filled from top to bottom with printed words. Later, I attempted to draw people freehand. Gliding my pencil on paper was the best way to develop my fine motor skills.

One day I flipped through a nature book I found at school, library, or wherever (I can't quite remember) I came across a funny looking brown plant sticking straight up and surrounded by sharp green blades. I took my pencil and paper and studied the picture and drew a line. I repeated theses actions until I drew my first plant, a Cat-tail.

I enrolled in art classes after school. I worked with different mediums: Paper Mache, acrylics, temperas, water colors, clay, oils, Decoupage… I learned that I could use more than a pencil or paint brush to create art. I incorporated leaves, petals, sticks, sponges, toothbrushes, and whatnot to create different textures on canvas, paper, cardboard, or ceramics. I learned how to paint all sorts of plants and flowers more difficult than a Cat-tail.

Grams loved art, another passion I share with her. She had these heavy art books of Monet, Grant, Michelangelo, etc. that lined the bottom of her coffee table. When I visited her and Grandpa I would finger through the books. As I looked through the artworks I found appreciation. At six years old I appreciated art just how I appreciated flowers, ponds, grass, words, and books.

A decade later, when I was helping my family clean out the house Grams and Grandpa used to live in I came across a lot of interesting things. Besides finding boxes full of electric bills from 1951, I found a beautiful wood box with copper hinges. The wood was damaged from staying in the garage for years, perhaps a decade or more. I opened the box and there were rows and rows of paint tubes, all sorts of colors. I picked up one of the tubes and unscrewed the cap. I squeezed out purple paint onto the tip of my index finger. I heard crackles as the paint struggled to come out of the tube. I pinched my finger to my thumb and the dry paint cracked and felt like chalk. The paint was no good, but the box was a treasure.

Along with the box of paints I found an easel, confetti with dry paint. Best of all, I found canvases of paintings, most of them unfinished. The paintings were Grams’ work. One stood out from the rest. I held the rectangular canvas in my hands. The colors were warm, deep, like swirls of dark water. I ran my fingers along the grooves of dry paint and pictured Grams painting each stroke.

I never knew Grams painted until that day. I never got a chance to know her at all. She was a very gentle soul and kept things to herself most of the time. Only once in a while I would see her real self shine through. Now, I have to rely on stories I hear from others and my own memories.

Wonder

I started this blog without a clear idea of what I wanted. I started off writing a continuing story about a girl who found love, sort of a fictionalized character of me. It didn’t work. Then I deleted all my posts and gave up.

Now, that I’ve come back to it, I don’t see it as giving up. I spent some time away from the blog. I forgot about it. Then my uncle asked me last month if I had a blog that he could follow. He wanted a way to be a part of my life because we live in different states.

“What a great idea my uncle had,” I thought to myself.

Today, I started fresh and created a new blog, Navy Wife Gets a Life. After a while, I stared at this one, Daily Dose of Daisies. I read the blog title over and over. I stared at the empty screen on my computer. Nothing was posted. Blank.

“My grandma used to love gardening,” I thought. Then I had an idea for this blog.

I have this book of Grams published in 1916, Flower Guide by Chester A. Reed. I believe it had been her mother’s book. In the right hand corner of the first page is her mother’s name written in pencil and the date. The date is a little smudged, but I think it reads, 1919. The book is small, 3in. X 5in. It gives pictures and brief descriptions of wild flowers.

Grams loved her garden. Her rose bushes in the front of the stone house are what I remember most. I’ve seen red and yellow roses growing amongst the thorns and deep green leaves. Even after she passed away, Grams’ roses thrived! Now the house is sold and I don’t know what’s going to happen to her roses.

My aunt also has the touch for gardening. She has a beautiful house near a rocky beach in Southern California. When I visit I enjoy a variety of flowers. In her garden, I’ve seen Birds of Paradise, Hydrangea, and Bogenvia. And further into her backyard, she grows her own herbs. Imagine walking out onto your moist grass and cutting some fresh basil to go on top of your pasta.

I don’t have a yard to grow my own garden, not yet. One day I will. I think I share that same passion Grams had for gardens. My idea for this blog is to journal my experiences and exploration of different types of gardens, flowers, etc. Mainly, I see a lot of journaling about my memories of Grams and the joys she brought to me and the family.

I would like to close with something written by Chester A. Reed. He wrote, “Whose heart is not gladdened at the sight of the first Mayflower or Arbutus in the spring? Who can pass a body of water, its glistening with the beauty of the Water Lily, without appreciation? In the fall who can traverse a field blind to the brilliancy of the seas of Purple Asters and gleams of the Goldenrod?”

I wonder how many times Grams read this passage from her book, Flower Guide. I wonder how many times has she stopped and watch the ducklings in the pond and appreciate them. I wonder how many times has she taken in the scents of exotic flowers and be satisfied. I wonder how powerful those three questions are.