I've spoken before to the power of crafting, but what about the power of gardening? Even flower gardening – which can not feed the body but instead feeds the soul – leaves a legacy.
This birthday bouquet is brought to you (well, me) courtesy of my grandfather and the daughter I named after one of his favorite flowers. Grandpa Les has been gone since Sage was a baby, but his daffodils (curiously planted in rows, the flower bed now overtaken by blackberry canes) shine on. Dozens and dozens of them.
Technically these flowers were stolen. They grow in the gardens next door to our cabin. Once my grandparents house, now an empty "summer cabin" for a family from the city. The garden was full of spent daffodils that no one enjoyed, so we took the initiative to steal a boquet from the masses for ourselves.
I know. I am setting a terrible example for my daughter. Truth be told, Lupine is named after the flowers that my grandfather would steal (with me in tow) from public land alongside the river. (Clearly I come from a long line of garden hooligans.) I'm sure he would have called it transplanting, but let's be honest. It was stealing.
And somehow remembering him in his brown work boots, blue work shirt and pants, and cap, his gnarled hands planting these bulbs in those odd little rows made me want to have a little bit of his spirit at my birthday. And I'd say we did. Even if I did steal to do it.
(Yes, I miss him so.)
Ah yes, the legacy of gardening! In his last few years, my grandpa loved sunflowers. You couldn’t visit him from June to August without hearing about the ones he planted–guerilla-style–around his retirement community. Last summer, he was too tired to plant any, so we planted a few for him. Every last one of them got eaten by rabbits, and only the ones that sprouted from seeds dropped by the flowers he had grown the summer before survived. We still had sunflowers in spades! He left us in September, but I’m looking forward to checking those gardens for my grandpa’s sunflowers this summer…
A sweet rememberance of your grampa!
I always say that plating bulbs (and most forms of seed planting, for that matter) is an act of faith. Faith that spring will come, faith that new life will spring from the plain, brown bulbs buried in a hole and covered with dirt…
A beautiful remembrance.
Your Grandpa would have done the same! And I’m sure he’s smiling with pride right now! Absolutely lovely photos by the way!
Beautiful pictures and a sweet remembrance of your Grandpa. And while it was steeling, I’m sure you Grandpa was smiling. ~ Elizabeth
What a lovely way to remember your grandpa. My grandad was known for his rose gardens, he loved them so.
I’m so (tearfully) happy that Grandpa got his own post. I am grateful for everything he taught us, even if – no, *especially because* – he broke the rules of How It’s Supposed To Be Done. Not everyone gets to eat “rescued” potatoes and raspberries, and I’ll swear they taste better. And, while I probably didn’t need to learn to drive stick at thirteen, it was sure a big kick shot in the arm to my budding teenage rebellion streak (and I’m pretty sure that’s why he did it). 🙂
Definitely broke some rules, that grandpa. Way more than the other one did that’s for sure. And may I say, “CLUTCH AND BRAKE! CLUTCH AND BRAKE!” Ahem. (Love you.)
Indeed.
Beautiful, Mikaela. Hugs…