Yesterday I transplanted the iris. As I dug holes and set them in place, it reminded me of Mom. Even at 95 years old, she was ordering bulbs and planting flowers. It is a quiet affirmation of life. Will I be here next spring to see these bloom? These particular iris were given to Mom by my grandmother Stewart from her garden before I was born. Mom moved them every time the family moved, and as they multiplied, she would dig them up, separate the new growth and replant them. I remember, as a little girl, helping her set them in place beneath the kitchen window. When she moved to Assisted Living after my father died, she called my sister and I to ask if we wanted some of the "big blue" iris for D's city garden and my garden on the farm. This is the third time I have transplanted them.
In the midst of world tension, political discourse, and economic uncertainty, planting a garden is an act of faith. I believe that life is good and I want to watch things grow. I look forward to sharing bulbs with my children when they have a home with a garden.
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