My southern-preacher daddy often advised his\u00a0congregation\u00a0from the pulpit to\u00a0“Bloom where you’re planted.”\u00a0\u00a0He meant it in\u00a0terms of doing good works, no matter where life takes you.\u00a0 Another meaning of the phrase was evident in all\u00a0his sermons as\u00a0he exhorted the church to\u00a0quit complaining and get on\u00a0with what you’re put here to do.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n
As a masterful gardener, daddy had\u00a0an aversion to forcing blooms.\u00a0 When pressured by\u00a0mother, he’d cut flowers for her\u00a0and bring them inside, one bloom at a time, in a small vase.\u00a0 But he refused to buy<\/em> hothouse flowers because of what he considered their unnatural growing conditions.\u00a0 His theory\u00a0about blooming where you’re planted was\u00a0at odds\u00a0with an industry’s need to “force” plants.<\/p>\n The root\u00a0(sorry)\u00a0of his aversion to cutting\u00a0flowers may have been the fact that his family were\u00a0farmers by occupation.\u00a0 Some of them\u00a0were sharecroppers\u00a0and at other times they\u00a0grew\u00a0vegetable gardens and sold produce for a living.\u00a0 Daddy\u00a0gardened with\u00a0his own daddy in order to survive.\u00a0There was never time or space for recreational plants.<\/p>\n When we moved from the deep south to southern California, a new world grew outside.\u00a0 Birds of Paradise.\u00a0 Avocados.\u00a0 Camellias.\u00a0 For the first time, he had a pleasure garden and he\u00a0delighted in\u00a0tending plants that nobody had <\/em>to have.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n At first he was apologetic about the rows of irises he planted around his vegetable\u00a0patch, but soon\u00a0delicate pansies lined\u00a0the driveway out front.\u00a0 He was fearless.\u00a0 He’d try anything.\u00a0 He coaxed to giant size some\u00a0plants that shouldn’t have been able to thrive in Glendale, and later Palm Springs,\u00a0California.\u00a0<\/p>\n To the end,\u00a0he resisted indoor plants.<\/p>\n Daddy had been gone for years by\u00a0the time I\u00a0began putting narcissus bulbs in a pot on the windowsill during the winter.\u00a0This year\u00a0my\u00a0small granddaughter\u00a0helped\u00a0pat the soil around the bulbs and give them a good long drink.\u00a0 Every day\u00a0we watch the shoots\u00a0grow taller.\u00a0<\/p>\n I can’t wait to see her face when the first lacy\u00a0white bloom pokes out.\u00a0 Who am\u00a0I kidding?\u00a0 I plant these for me, for\u00a0no purpose other than the pure\u00a0enjoyment of watching them send up\u00a0green shoots and then\u00a0those\u00a0blooms with the intense fragrance.\u00a0<\/p>\n If this is a kind of sinful\u00a0excess, it’s one\u00a0I intend to commit\u00a0every year that I’m lucky enough to enjoy the winter light.\u00a0 If Daddy were here, if he’d had a chance to meet\u00a0his\u00a0great-granddaughter,\u00a0I’m guessing he’d\u00a0make an exception.\u00a0 He might\u00a0find a way to include\u00a0our windowsill garden in his definition of\u00a0blooming where you’re planted.<\/p>\n