Evening Chorus

Many folks like to listen to the birds at dawn, I prefer the hour before sunset. They were in full harmony on this gorgeous evening - and it seemed as though the creek was singing along with them, as well as the barking dog keeping time on the neighbor's hill, and the minnows were doing water ballet. As I soaked in the sunshine coming through the trees and lost count of the shades of green, I realized it wasn't the beauty or perfection of the natural world that brought my thoughts to God -- it was the pervading sense of peace that quieted my mind enough to see it all...that's when I have no doubts.

A Shudder Said It All

I hope it was a farce I heard on the NPR program this evening. Surely. The man was suggesting one ‘go green’ and send plastic flowers for Mother’s Day. He said is was the perfect gift to last for many years - one that could even be ‘re-gifted’. I laughed and I remembered.

As a young child, I loved to climb up on the kitchen step stool that served as our telephone chair and open up the topmost cabinets which held the good dishes - fancy candlesticks, the parfait cups, tiny custard bowls, delicate juice glasses, the Noritake China. There were also boxes filled with keys that no one knew about, candle snuffers, toothpick dispensers from state park visits, nut crackers, and the like. On one of my snooping adventures, I reached into a box and pulled out a rose. It was hard, had no fragrance, and the thorn merely bent back when I touched it. “Mom,” I said as I carried it over to the sink where she was washing dishes. “What’s this?” She, a learned botanist, turned and looked and visibly shuddered. It was the first time I had ever seen anyone make such an emotionally physical statement without speaking. “Oh, dear, where did you find that, that thing?” And she shuddered again. “ Let me show you something.” She led me out onto to the side porch that served as a greenhouse in the winter and she pointed at a beautiful pink geranium. “Smell and touch that flower, Bethy. Look at its amazing color, how delicate the shades of pink merge into each other, how soft the petals are. And smell the earth, feel the dirt.” At that point, my mother paraphrased the poet Joyce Kilmer and I was convinced by her wisdom: “Only God can make a flower, Bethy, only God.”

When my own son was just learning to speak, I wasn’t nearly as wise and patient. “Taylor,” I said, “repeat after me: ‘Plastic Flowers Are Tacky’.” As he lisped out his first full sentence, I clapped him on the back and said, “Let’s make brownies and celebrate!” No, not nearly as wise....

Taylor was 3 years old (and surely older than his years), when Grandmommy Topsy, my mother-in-law, moved from Baltimore to a house down in the holler near our old farmhouse, along the banks of the Buckhannon River. Topsy, whom I adored, was a true ‘blue-blood’ and a woman of sophistication, lovely clothes, beautiful antique furnishings, and a strong sense of self. She also saw nothing wrong with winding plastic ivy and flowers along the shelving in her new bathroom. As a matter of fact, she was quite proud of it. As she showed us her handiwork, Taylor started to speak, “But Grandmommy......” I gave him the look, a nudge, and a wink - and he said no more until Topsy had gone into the kitchen to fix us all a pot of tea.

“Taylor, I’m not so sure you’ll understand the concept of ‘subtle’ yet, but suffice it to say, we don’t want to hurt Grandmommy’s feelings. But I do think it’s okay to ask her what she likes about her, um, plastic ivy and flowers.” So over tea, my dear little boy asked. She smiled and said, “Isn’t it wonderful that I don’t have to water them, they stay alive in the winter, and they remind me of tramping around the woods. They’re just the thing for a bathroom!” Kindness and wisdom seemed to surface from that little child who some may say I prejudiced, “Grandmommy, if you like them, then that’s just great!”

Through the years, my son has sent me many beautiful flowers and plants for Mother’s Day. Year before last, it was a Bonsai Tree and I adored it. I also killed it. Sometimes life is more complicated than “Plastic Flowers Are Tacky.”