I was out for a run this morning (zombies weren’t even chasing me- I was running for pleasure) and all over the neighborhood tulips are blooming. My heart bounced up at all of them, but especially the red ones.
They look pink in this shot, but I assure you, the tulips are red.
My dad was not what you’d call a keen gardener. I remember planting radishes with him when I was very little, and he took great pride in his lawn, but he certainly wasn’t where I inherited my love of plants. He did work hard on his red tulips, though. He planted them beside the front door, and after they bloomed and the foliage faded, he would dig them up, and separate out the daughter bulbs, or offsets, from the ones that had bloomed, then save them on screens he had built until fall, when he would plant them again. I can only ever remember him having red tulips- not sure why.
My dad died about 11 years ago. Kate barely remembers him, and Will only knows him from stories and pictures. The spring after he died, we planted a Burr Oak tree in the back yard, and it has thrived- it so represents him- strong and tall. He was an oak. Additionally, that fall, I ordered and planted 100 red tulips, which I put under the oak. That next spring, they bloomed strongly and vividly- a blanket of red under the little oak. I didn’t follow my daddy’s example, and dig them up and sort them. I never do- I try to select varieties that naturalize, and just let nature take its course.
Nature’s course with tulips is that the bulbs form offsets every year, and they don’t send up flowers until they are big enough. They may come back after a couple of years, but if they aren’t divided, they tend to peter out. Last year, there were one or two flowers, this year I don’t see any.
It strikes me that grief is like that- early on, a blanket of red, and as time passes, the feeling fades, only to be brought up again, with a reminder, or a dream, or a pun. (One of my colleagues recently broke her arm in 3 places. I laughed and told her to stay out of them places. No one in the teacher’s lounge laughed, but Daddy would have.)
Now, I’m not saying that oaks and red tulips are a universal memorial, but if you are grieving someone, think about what they loved, and what you can plant to help their memory stay with you, so that when you smell lilacs, or see daffodils, or pass by a lily, you remember. You can grow that.
(If you are curious about why no blogging recently, nothing’s wrong, just very busy with they day job, family stuff, and of course, exercise and coffee. I’ve got some ideas of things to write about, and I will, as I have time.)
Strawberry Fields for Breakfast 
Apr 06, 2015 @ 01:14:29
Well, I would have laughed because that was funny. I have always loved the idea that something that is comes alive again every spring is symbolic of those people that are in our hearts forever. My neighbor has a beautiful peony that her mother planted 60 years ago and we admire it every year and she tells me something about her mom. My office manager just sold the family farm but not until she had dug up part of an old shrub rose that her great great grandmother had brought from somewhere back east. I have a sage in my backyard that I planted a month or so before my daughter was born and was covered in profuse purple blooms when I brought her home from the hospital. Every year when the sage blooms I vividly recall sitting on the swing with my brand new baby and admiring those flowers. Great post friend. It got me thinking.