The gardens of my childhood spill over in my mind, growing still today thick with old-fashioned roses and their delicate pink petals decorating the sides of Mawmaw Bell’s little red brick house on the hillside where I played.

That woman’s fervor for flowers was enchanting, cactuses lining the gravel driveway, the intoxicating aroma of gardenias near the storm pit, and canopies of azaleas in varying heights, some planted last season, others older than me by far. The real beauty was not just in the blooms with exotic names or even the garden itself, but in the enthusiasm, the magic, that Mawmaw mustered up over her flowers.

All of us children could not help sharing the joy of a new bulb delivered by the postman from the mail-order catalog. The screen door popped behind Issabell’s thin frame as she skipped to the rusty tin mailbox down by the road, and boy did she hoot and holler when she pulled out a cardboard box stamped from Gurney’s Seed and Nursery Company.

She had won the lottery, her own very special version of it. We all watched as she dug with her makeshift garden tools, sowing seeds and burying oddly-shaped bulbs with glee.

It was the simplest of Southern gardens, modest by all accounts with pieces of chicken wire tied onto wooden stakes with old stockings or ripped-up flour sacks. When I close my eyes, I can still see her through a spray of water, perched over her flower beds, the green water hose trailing behind her in the sunlight.

When I was lucky enough to catch her in the yard between her soap operas on the big console television, she would describe each of her flowers in great detail: “Now, this is a Purple-Bearded Iris, and that over there is my Casa Blanca Oriental Lily.”

She is the reason I adore Star Gazer Lilies today.

The neighborhood ladies gathered ‘round, swapping seeds, bulbs, or cuttings from each other’s gardens. Daddy called them a bunch of hens until one of them kicked dirt at him, shooing him away like an uninvited rooster.

Mama, Aunt Marie, Aunt Tensie, and Mawmaw Bell talked about everything and everybody under the sun while drinking ice cold sweet tea from Mason jars before walking home with a few new gems to add to their gardens.

My new Colorado neighbor Joyce has promised to share Hollyhock seeds with me this fall, and her yard is as pretty as any English country garden.

My second Mama Peggy loved to garden and used to grow Hollyhocks, her favorite flower, in Mississippi, but this is one variety that the cooler Colorado summers tend to favor.

Of course, we do have Magnolias in Mississippi, so each garden spot has its charms.

I think with gratitude of all the gardeners I have loved. “Now, those hyacinths will come back every year,” Mawmaw would say to the aunts and neighbors assembled, and so did the “hens” to swap gladiolas and gossip. How glad I am today for the seeds of love they all sowed in me.

 

David Creel is a Mississippi native and a syndicated columnist. You may reach him at beautifulwithdavid@gmail.com.