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I told her he was at the dentist having oral surgery. She said, "Oh, so they're just gonna talk about it?" READ MORE
Mother Knows Best
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It bloomed. Finally, it bloomed. In my flowerbed stands a stately red tulip. Tall. Perfectly formed. A gardener’s delight. It was, however, a late bloomer. And I do mean LATE. Three years ago, this past fall, I planted eight tulip bulbs in our front yard planter. It would be my turn to host the family for Easter the following spring and I wanted my yard to sing of springtime, to billow over with blooms and to welcome my extended family. That spring? Nothing. The following spring…a few nubs I celebrated prematurely. Instead of producing colorful buds, the deformed little clusters atop frail stems never matured. Looking more like I had taken a blowtorch to them instead of watering them gently, my aspirations of nurturing an overflowing flowerbed were wilting as fast as my tulips. But THIS spring, 3 1/2 years later, I have a spectacular tulip gracing my front planter. And I am acting like Tom Hanks in the movie “Castaway.” Remember that scene where he danced around the fire he made by rubbing sticks together? “I…I made…I made fire!” he shouted. Well, that’s me, in our front yard. Drive by and you’ll find me standing next to my lipstick red tulip (my husband says that’s why they call them “two lips”), waiting for someone to drive by and notice it. My family thinks I’m silly, I’m sure. Each time we leave the house, I point it out to them. “See the tulip,” I say, cranking my head to get the same view my neighbors get as they drive by. Now that it has bloomed, I’m giddy with the satisfaction real gardeners enjoy. I’ll never qualify as one, however, due to a brief transgression last spring when I was at a loss for how to make my garden grow. Ask my neighbor, Debbie Kelly, about the silk flowers I inserted into the front planter to fill in the gaps between two snapdragons that needed some help. Debbie, whose yard you could use to shoot photos for Sunset magazine, shook her finger at me when she came up for a closer look and then heard my confession. I guess that’s why I’m so pleased with my tulip. I occasionally fluff the soil around the other seven bulbs that are just beginning to sprout. “Look at your sister,” I coax them. “You can do it, too.” Like a writer with a million ideas for stories, or a mother with many children to launch, sometimes you just have to celebrate when each one flowers. It is hope for the rest.m Kimberly A. Porrazzo is a senior writer for OC Family Magazine. |
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