Not all of our stories are told with words. I remember this when I hear great music or a painting grabs my attention. I don’t always remember it when I walk through a garden.
The violet is from my great aunt’s garden. The garden is gone, but the link to Aunty Nancy and to my family history is there when I look at the violet. When I smell its sweet scent.
Like so many who lived through the Great Depression, Aunty Nancy was careful with money. She’d had to be all her life. But plants were something that she could indulge in. Land, water and loving care she had in abundance, and for the plants themselves, she swapped cuttings.
The joy of taking cuttings is that the plants that grow from them become living reminders of the people in your life. Aunty Nancy’s stories were told in her garden. I’m glad to say, mine are too.
2 responses to “Stories from the Garden”
You're so right. I'm not a gardener at all, but my mother was always collecting cuttings and the kitchen was full of little glass jars with cuttings growing roots. It's a great way to maintain memories. Violets are lovely. We have some in our garden.
I love violets — except for the fact the snails like to hide out there in the cool shade. Ah well. Thanks for dropping in, Shelley 🙂