Read by Matilda Longbottom

IIn the quaint tapestry of family memories, one thread stands out vividly—Mom’s gift of gardening. Although she may not have possessed the greenest thumb, the love she cultivated among her three children blossomed into a legacy of vibrant blooms and flourishing gardens.

Mom’s nurturing touch extended beyond words; she modeled a deep affection for growing things, creating opportunities for us to fall in love with the magic of flowers and homegrown vegetables. The house was adorned with perennial greenery, the centerpiece being a philodendron that meandered gracefully from the living room through the dining room, up to the kitchen doorway. This simple act, done with devotion, left an indelible impression on our hearts.

A testament to her passion, Mom kept the dining room alive with Gloxinias, their jewel-toned blossoms casting a spell of enchantment. Our first dachshund, Rosie, would often curl up beside them, basking in the Winter sunlight that streamed through the bay window. These moments, infused with the delicate fragrance of blooms, became cherished fragments of our shared history.

Mom’s culinary prowess extended to the garden, where vegetables became an integral part of our daily fare. In a surprising revelation, she confessed her aversion to green vegetables, except for green beans, with the defiance of a child. Yet, she embraced a rainbow of others—Winter squash, tomatoes, corn, carrots, radishes, and potatoes. Each had a story, each a chapter from her life, including fond memories of depression-era childhood meals featuring mashed turnips and rutabagas.

Her modest city-sized garden in northern Minnesota, with its small raised beds, became a canvas for her botanical dreams. As her children, we revived the floral borders, adding peonies, clematis, white bleeding hearts, hostas, and hydrangeas. Mom’s pride radiated as she tended to annuals on her deck and navigated the challenges of deer predation and unexpected visits from city skunks.

The seeds of Mom’s gardening passion were sown in various plots of our family’s history—sweet peas behind our old house, a cherished lilac bush in our shared backyard, and peonies surrounding Grandma and Grandpa’s apartment building. Her stories, like the ants on the peony buds, created a sense of mutual understanding, a shared journey of growth and care.

When the mantle of motherhood passed to the next generation, Mom gifted an article about planning a “little girl’s garden.” The yellowed pages held a timeless sentiment, passed down through decades, affirming her commitment to nurturing the love of gardening. I marked out a corner garden for our little girl, who has since grown into an adult gardener, tending to flowers and vegetables on a third-floor balcony in her city home.

Today, Mom’s legacy lives on in her adult grandchildren, once little girls now teaching their own children of all genders, the art of gardening. The soil of family history has been enriched by her hands, and the love she planted continues to bloom, a perennial reminder of a mother’s enduring gift of gardening. ❖

About the Author: Janet Blank has been gardening for decades in southeastern Wisconsin, which still mostly feels subtropical to this northern Minnesota girl. She has a very helpful Spouse who moves earth and sod for her, and also a series of short-legged long dogs who like to dig in strange places.