The color of honor

Late July, I potted a stubby geranium in a gray pot and placed her atop my backyard boulders. She’s one of several annuals that called my name at Uncle Luke’s when I dropped in to buy chicken feed.

The forsaken begonias I also took home and planted in the vicinity of the geranium are also surprises I’ve found throughout the years on the grounds of that little store on Livernois in Troy.

Unlike the begonias, the geranium had not one stem or bud, or tag to identify her color.

As I’d potted several red geraniums months prior, I hoped this little orphan would bloom light pink, my favorite color.

When I spied her from my kitchen window, or walked by her pot, she kept me guessing if she’d ever bloom.

“Patience,” she’d whisper from her healthy, green leaves. She showed no signs of giving up the ghost.

A late bloomer myself, I understood you can’t force someone or something to grow. Sure, there’s a plethora of plant foods to encourage healthy foliage and blooms. I often use organic versions referred by admired and proven gardeners of my acquaintance.

Yet, for some reason I’ve yet to conclude, I let the little geranium fend for herself on rainwater, well water, sunshine, and my affection.

I hovered over her, tested the moisture of her soil and asked, “So, what color are you, little girl?”

See, for years I’ve planted patriotic pots of red geraniums, white petunias, and a blue flower I’ve yet to identify. I’m not ambitious enough to learn the botanical and common name of every flower, shrub and tree.

Except lavender, Lavandula angustifolia, because it behooved me to know this fact as a lavender farmer years ago. Perhaps because lavender oil is claimed to aid our memory, I haven’t yet forgotten her botanical name.

Now, at this point, I won’t burden myself, you, or my little, rescued garden geranium with her botanical name. Trust me, the wild geranium growing along our country roadsides complicates things.

Most significantly, my little girl grew slowly. One day I spied one short stem with tiny buds. Then two stems. Three.

The morning after I returned home from a three-day road trip to Lexington, Kentucky, for a cousin’s funeral, I stood at my kitchen sink, thankful to be alive, and for my home.

Thankful for my sisters, brothers-in-law, and McCoy-O’Brien families; the affection they’ve invested in my life.

In the distance, sunlight shone upon my white hen house and its yellow door. The Isa Browns, now molting, drank from their water bowl. All was well.

Dear Reader, a patch of light pink in the upper boulder garden caught my eye. Could it be my little geranium had bloomed at last? Had patience benefited me this blessed desire of my heart?

Oh yes!

I hovered over her, tested the moisture of her soil, and counted five blooming stems. More than what I could ask or think.

Five light pink blooms in honor of my four sisters and me.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com