And he’s not above pilfering some from the side of the road. He plants them in the vegetable garden and all around the house and lawn, cuts them from April to November, and makes arrangements for every surface he can find in the house. In the spring he makes sure I have a little hyacinth or daffodil by my computer or on my drawing table, and the lilacs fill the downstairs with their heady perfume. I hear my beloved late uncle’s voice on the phone every spring, starting the call in his baritone, “when lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed,” and I feel loved and remembered. In the fall, the gourds come in. Some of summer’s colors are hung upside-down to dry. His daily walks bring back photography and all sorts of natural treasures. Through him, even though I can’t get out and walk much lately, I feel part of the seasons.
Right now there are some 3-foot dahlias in a vase on the porch, because we already have so many inside he’s looking for new surfaces. He loves all growing things (but not white flowers for some reason? No need to tell me, I know they’re glorious) from the pussywillow, fiddleheads, and bloodroot in spring to the lamb’s ear, thistle, and seedpods & milkweed in fall. He isn’t bringing the flowers in for ME…but for all of us. For our daughter, a little bright freshness for her sometimes cluttered room, a mood booster, “I’m thinking of you.” And always some for the kitchen where he spends a good chunk of his days. All summer, there’s a small bouquet on his own desk where he writes. Baby gourds on the breakfast bar, dried hollow gourds on the wardrobe in the living room under a soft layer of dust. He cuts hydrangea for our beloved Celeste, whose own garden could be in magazines…she doesn’t need more flowers, but hydrangeas are her favorites, and he knows too many favorite anythings is never enough. He brings our neighbor Julie his stuffed hot peppers, almost every batch he makes, August into September, because already the sun is setting sooner and the heat is waning, and some of summer’s bouquet is best adored in the mouth. I think the best love is this kind of daily love, sharing what we’d be doing anyway if we were alone in the world. Giving gifts for the gratitude that we’re not.
When we’re kids, we’re inundated with all sorts of love cliches from cartoons to advertising and tales of true romance… men sending women 24 red roses in massive boxes with lush satin ribbon, boxes of chocolates, diamond jewelry, corsages, grand gestures. How many young femmes grow up wanting these things only because they’re acculturated to? Did we notice those women were also always in the kitchen, or putting on makeup, or trying not to eat or look hungry? Now, they’re doing squats and practicing their twerk, saying “does my butt look big?” and wanting a YES, or curating their living rooms in tones of beige and tan. They’re obsessively meal-prepping on an Instagram live. The old tropes and the new ones are problematic in lots of ways. Why isn’t the Love Formula about leaving books open to great passages and bringing each other hunks of cheese? That’s a love I could long for.
I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with thoughtful love gifts…and of course there’s nothing wrong with sending flowers. But the pressure to want them or buy them, to ship them, to make it at least a dozen (or wish it were), to perform “love” in these over-baked cultural acts…that’s where the sadness is. The part of us that learns that roses are somehow more valuable than dahlias, and dahlias are better than daisies, that ANYTHING is better than carnations… the part that learns flowers from a boutique are better than the affordable ones at the grocery store… where’s the joy in that? FTD, like so many megaliths of commerce, has sanitized and commodified the experience of receiving flowers, and with the hierarchy of price-points and the conflation of “how much you love me” with “how much you spend,” the source of these gorgeous creations can feel more like Tiffany’s than truly luxurious Nature. The love can get lost in the gift.
I just want to say when I learned how to change my windshield wiper blades as a young new driver, I didn’t realize that doing so in front of John over 25 years ago (and walking in a muddy creek with my work shoes on) would seal the deal for him. I didn’t know then that neither of us would ever care one bit about Valentine’s Day (obviously there needs to be chocolate in a happy home 365 days a year). Back then, all I knew was he also found the poignancy in poetry that made my life feel worth trying to understand. He also loved nothing so much as his students. It’s not that he never brought me gifts… I was receiving lemon poppyseed muffins and cool-looking leaves and rocks for months already. We were reading each other our favorite poems. But they weren’t all love poems, unless you define love as Paying Attention to it All. And he would never send me flowers. He keeps an eye out for yard-sale vases in perfect sizes or cool colors. I wield the power tools when a door needs stripping. He turns over the earth in the garden beds, he plants the cosmos, and he keeps our house gorgeous with blooms. Come on over. They’re for all of us.
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I love this :)
What a lovely tribute to a caring and loving man.