Read by Matilda Longbottom

II couldn’t help but grin as both sides of the road burst into a riot of pink and purple flowers. A few years back, construction upheavals threatened the lupines near the Williams’ place. But there they were, as resilient as ever.

Armed with my camera, I waded through green stalks, serenaded by humming bumblebees and the sweet fragrance of clover and nectar. The July sun added an extra touch of magic to Mother Nature’s display. With every snapshot, I tried to capture the kaleidoscope of shapes, colors, and textures, all while feeling the comforting presence of my grandma beside me.

Our first venture through this floral wonderland was when Grandma was in her late 70s. Our last was on her 89th birthday, adorned in baggy jeans, a Lady Slipper-embroidered T-shirt, and a short-brimmed cap atop her red-tinted hair. Amidst the greenery, she scanned for sturdy plants for me to dig or a stray raspberry to sneak into her mouth. The family’s champion berry-picker, Grandma never indulged while on official picking duty. Her joy was contagious.

As Grandpa’s cantankerous nature grew, it became harder for Grandma to leave their apartment. But I became a diplomatic mediator, ensuring Grandpa’s low-end brandy made it into the slightly fancier bottle he shared with company. While he supervised the “brandy shuffle,” Grandma waited in the hallway, coat on, ready for adventure. With a promise to return soon, I’d back out the door, asking, “What kind of pie do you want me to bring you?”

In the car, Grandma unleashed her own brand of commentary on life with Grandpa. One day, she confided about his “sex pills,” stifling my laughter. “Old fool,” she declared. “What does he still want sex for?” I wisely kept quiet, redirecting the conversation to less touchy subjects like laundry and money.

Our Winter outings featured thriftily shared meals at a local cafe, courtesy of my Scotch-Irish grandma. Summer adventures led us down gravel roads, where once we spotted six eagles in a single tree and another time stumbled upon a rare cluster of mistletoe.

The story of Mrs. Williams’ flowers, shared by Grandma, added another layer of enchantment. During the Depression, when money was scarce, Mrs. Williams graciously provided bouquets for weddings and funerals. We speculated that the recipients, in turn, scattered the seeds, creating an ever-expanding garden legacy.

Between Grandpa’s convoluted directions and Grandma’s sharp memory, we embarked on a quest to find the Williams’ place in late Summer. Almost giving up, Grandma spotted a dirt road heading east. “It’ll be on the right-hand side.”

Nestled among apple trees, the weathered small house stood, lupines no longer in bloom but hollyhocks and rose mallow flourishing. Once discovered, Grandma and I made a pilgrimage every July, surrounded by lupines in full bloom.

I never knew when our last trip together would be. At times, I regretted not capturing Grandma amidst the purples and pinks, raspberry stains on her lips. Yet, in my mind’s eye, I vividly see her, I smell the flowers, taste the berries, hear her witty comebacks to Grandpa, and cherish her words of advice. I know, without a doubt, that Grandma played a part in scattering the seeds of Mrs. Williams’ flowers. ❖

About the Author: Chris Marcotte is an award-winning writer who pulls threads from history and weaves them into the lives of her characters. Her writing is inspired by archival newspapers, family stories, diaries, and letters. She collects oral histories of Minnesota pioneers, visits rural cemeteries, and explores abandoned ruins. Her work has been published and has won awards in several regional journals. Her current project was inspired by an 1897 axe murder in her own family. She writes from her grandmother’s rocking chair in northern Minnesota and occasionally “witches” for buried bodies.