Sharon's blog: Who you talkin' to, Mom?

"Who you talkin' to, Mom?  Nobody here but you."

I swear she sounded just like my mother.  I had the same question from her over and over again through the years; likely around 60 years ago. But this was my daughter and I wasn't in the mountains listening to Mom. I was in my very own back yard on my hands and knees. Talkin' . . .  to a plant.

Don't tell me you don't talk to your plants, I know you do. 

'Oh, you poor thing, you need a drink of water.'

'Look at you, you're growin' right outta your pot!'

'Wow!  You're bloomin' a couple weeks early, you pretty thing, you!'

Things like that; and I was talkin' to a plant.  Yes, I was.

"Sweet Sweet William, I haven't seen you in such a long time!"

Those were the words my daughter had heard.

These were the words I heard from her:  "Mom, did you just name that plant"?

I could have said to her what I used to say to my mother:

"Just the birds, Mom, just talkin' to the birds." 

Or the turtles or the dog or the angels or the clouds, didn't matter to Mom as long as I answered.  Mom never talked back.  But my 30-something daughter does talk back and would not leave it at that - so she got the entire 50 cent lecture just in case she thought I was becoming senile for talking to plants.  Complete with 'Pay attention now' thrown in from time to time.

I was on my hands and knees beside the rock wall which is on the west end of my house.  I never go on that end mostly because there are two yippy dogs behind the fence next door and a woman who often yells louder than her dogs.  But also because nothing grows well there; it isn't a good place though I've tried planting several things. It's facing west and only gets late evening sun; no windows are on that end of the house so I gave up on it years ago.  I couldn't see it anyway.  Mostly I just weed that strip and hardly give it another thought.  Over the years I tried garden phlox, and for a few years it grew and bloomed.  And once I planted ferns there thinking it only got late sun, so they might survive. I'd even planted bee balm; I think it came back and bloomed maybe three or four years.

I'd taken the weed eater out with me, fully intending to cut the weeds I knew were growing all over what used to be a long skinny flower bed.  But right at the edge of the conglomeration of weeds, I saw big red blooms of something; the weed eater was forgotten.  I should have told my daughter that I was reciting poems, saying my prayers, talking to the birds, instead I told her about Sweet William.  The dianthus was my gift to myself the day I left school for the last time when I retired in 2006. I swear to you I haven't seen it since before the ice storm in '09. 

I thought maybe I'd carefully hand weed the strip of weeds, just in case there were other surprises.  We've had two droughts since '06, the one last year was horrendous so combined with the ice storm it was surprising that anything survived, me included.

I stayed on my hands and knees and kept talking and weeding, and little by little I found remnants of plants that had refused to give up.   Even the ferns look good, in spite of surely sizzling in the heat of summer beside that brick wall.  The monarda is back and it's for sure the garden phlox is too.

That strip all weeded we wandered to the back yard and she said, "Who's that, Maggie Magnolia??"

I don't know a Maggie, but looked to where she was pointing.  The magnolia is blooming!  Not full yet, but almost.  One bloom and another bud. Daughter - quite smug by now - got a lesson about planting magnolias from seed.  I ignored the 'Maggie Magnolia' part.  She didn't seem even the slightest bit impressed about magnolia seeds growing, but I'm impressed because I started the tree from seed when I knew we were losing the huge magnolia out front.  It had been one of those very wet years that preceded the first big drought and the top heavy magnolia was leaning rather steeply at a 45* angle, ready to uproot my bedroom and everything else that stood in its way.  Just a few years later now, it's nearing 15' tall and this is the third year for blooms.  Yeah, I talk to it a lot, but daughter is the one who named her Maggie.

She's learning, this daughter of mine.

"Mom, why's the rose got those little yellow things on it?"

A little alarmed, again I turned to where her finger pointed.

"Oh, that's Peggy Martin, she's growing up the smashed redbud along with a yellow trumpet honeysuckle."

"You named a rose Peggy Martin?  What did you name the honeysuckle, Harriet?  Oh, I got it, Peggy the rose and Harriet the honeysuckle are growing up Rebecca the redbud."

Smart mouthed daughters.

My mother, bless her dear heart, never talked back.  Daughter did not get that gene.

And so it goes.  The smoke tree didn't smoke last year, the drought caught it before it had time to bloom, but just look at it now.  And the LA iris, Black Gamecock, survived fairly well, too.  So many daylilies were brittle when bloom time came, they never bloomed either; but with all the buds I see right now, I believe the daylilies will have a very good year.  So will all the wild garlic that wanders through my gardens, along with the roses, the peonies, the lilies, the spiderwort. 

No, I don't name them, but I do some real soft talkin'.

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