It was a hot summer day. The drive to grandma's house always seemed to take a long time. As we drove the hum of the muffler coughed out little puffs of gray exhaust while we passed quiet little houses on old Highway 218. The chatter of four excited children filled the 1968 Chevy station wagon with life. Passing the ice cream stand buzzing with summer visitors, my face was pressed against the window. A little girl with a candy striped romper held a snow cone. I wished deeply to stop too, but we were going to grandma’s house.
Her home was not large but the yard seemed to go on for miles. As we pulled in, the front yard greeted us as the tires crunched over the loose gravel driveway. I hardly paid attention because the front door was never used. It was the side door under the carport we scurried too. The steps to the common entrance were stacked cinder block mounting to the old screen door with a heavy metal scrolling design. Such common details turn classic in the fabric foundations of Family. There she would stand always ready to greet us and plant a wet kiss on the top of our heads.
Once inside, the hall was warm as my feet scuffled on the old linoleum. The scent of fabric softener and crackers welcomed me back to grandma’s kitchen filled with wonderful little knick-knack treasures. African violets were her favorite, I learned quickly as a little girl. Grandma Tarbox had a green thumb. Along the side of the carport, she always had a flower garden. In the yard beyond, she tilled the long square of soil called a truck patch. I remember running along the row of towering sunflowers as I tried to find a hiding spot…”25-26-27-28-29-30! Ready or not here I come.”
Out of all the flowers, the purple African violet was always her favorite. I couldn’t understand why. The little indigo blooms seemed too delicate, so easily damaged. The leaves seemed too velvety soft, as if they were cloth. They made me think of the velvety appearance of a thistle, with one prick I learned to leave alone. But African violets were soft for real. I don’t think I ever knew that because I was never allowed to touch.
But 30 years have passed…, and one day recently, I was rushing through the automatic doors of the HyVee grocery store, on a mission for granny smith apples. Unexpectedly I saw her, a little pot of pink African violets. For the first time in my life I looked at the mini potted flowers with affection, $3.50 I must have them. Scooping up the little plant in my arms, I found the apples, strawberries, and muffins on my list and stepped into line at cash register One.
As I unloaded my items on the belt. The happy little pink blooms quietly moved toward the cash register, and I thrilled at the thought that for the first time I realized their beauty. The delicate blossoms and soft welcoming leaves- took me back to that outdoor summer evening of hide n’seek and fireflies. The muffled happy raucous of adult laughter spilling out from the living room, so small yet big enough to hold a family together. A family not exempt from hardship and trial. A family also full of dreamers and tenacious spirit.
As I picked up my plant and took the receipt, I loaded my arm with the plastic grocery sacks full of my purchases. But with special care I held onto the little pot. She was a precious commodity and link to a past I had displaced in the chaos of my own adult life.
It is funny how we reflect the family we have known. When I look in the mirror I see my grandmother’s dimple chin and her brown eyes staring back at me. When I sing I see her love for music and the twinkle in her eye. When I cook I use a pinch of this and handful of that just like she used to do when the family was all together. Clutching my little potted plant was like holding my grandmother’s soft hand, and saying I love you too Grandma, I love you too.
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