The redbrick house
sat so close to the railroad tracks that it shook whenever a train thundered
past. No decorations adorned the walls. No knickknacks sat on the dressers or
hutches. No one dared leave a glass on the kitchen counter. At one time, the
house belonged to a railroad company for employees to use for overnight stops.
Eventually, my great-aunt Helen settled there to take care of her syphilis insane
ex-husband . . . but that’s another story.
I loved Aunt Helen’s
house because of the porch that covered its front. Wicker chairs, a bench
swing, and enormous planters filled with Mother-in-law tongues provided a hideaway
for me and my siblings during our visits to League City, Texas. My grandmother,
uncle and his family lived next door in a nasty, dysfunctional home. I preferred
Aunt Helen’s tales of her wild and reckless youth to the more difficult to
understand stories of my grandmother. As a child, I could barely understand a
word she said. Later, as an adult, I learned to appreciate the richness of a
Cajun cadence.
Aunt Helen taught me
to propagate plants. From her, I learned to appreciate separating new growth
from the roots. She showed me how to pinch off a philodendron at just the right
spot and just how much sunlight it needed to grow in a glass jar. Kneeling in
her gardens, I separated bulbs and appreciated the hardiness of the Purple
Heart Wandering Jew plant, which thrive in my yard today—grown from clippings from
her garden more than fifty years ago.
The Mother-in-law
tongue plants became my favorite plants to nurture. I loved everything about
them: the green outlined by yellow, the long and slender sword-like leaves. My
imagination latched onto their name that alluded to the sharp tip of a
mother-in-law’s criticism.
After Aunt Helen died, her plants went to various friends. I inherited one that resided with me in my college apartment. One winter, I negligently left it outside on the porch. It died a horrible, frozen death.
For some reason, many
years passed before I purchased two Mother-in-law tongue plants. I fell in love
with it all over again! This time, I made certain to bring them in each winter.
Once the plants crowded in their pots, I’d repot them into a slightly larger
container, always attending to their preferences. Both plants thrived!
Until they didn’t.
Not enough sunlight.
Too much water.
Suddenly, I found
myself on my knees, hose in hand, gently tugging each leaf grouping apart. Mush
in some sections. Healthy leaves in another. I focused on recovery. Every day,
I visit these plants and murmur an incantation of encouragement.
Just enough sunlight.
Water measured with
caution.
Regrowth.
Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
No comments:
Post a Comment