I finally carved out time Monday to shop for flowers to plant in a front yard pot. I had an idea of what I wanted to select as I pulled into a parking spot at the local garden center. I wandered down the aisles, contemplating what plants would make the cut and found myself irresistibly drawn to specific flowers that conjured fond memories from both pre-school and elementary school.
I saw the marigolds first, standing at attention in bright rows of orange and yellow. I can’t say that I’ve always been drawn to marigolds. Well, let’s be honest. I’ve never really like marigolds much, until recently that is. Perhaps it was the colors. Orange and yellow. As a child of the (gulp) seventies, I’ve about had my fill of orange and yellow. My childhood bedroom carpet exhibited brilliant shades of orange, gold and red. Well, at least it wasn’t shag. That was in the living room – marigold as I recall. How ironic.
However, Monday the marigolds didn’t remind me of carpet, shag or otherwise. But the bright blooms did transport me back to the seventies and memories of my third grade class. In late spring close to the end of the school year, my classmates and I were charged with “beautifying” a courtyard outside our classroom windows. I’m sure there were other flowers involved yet the only flowers I recall from that day are the marigolds. I imagine some of us brought flower shovels and such with us to class that day. You could do that sort of thing in the seventies without being accused of bringing a weapon to school. Honestly, I think the only weapon any of us considered being on school grounds were the paddles that might be used by a teacher or principal on the errant student, which I never was. Ah paddles in schools. Another ancient outdated barbarian practice from the seventies no longer observed. But I digress. Again.
My class gathered in the courtyard where we received instruction on how to plant the flowers. I remember the smell of the marigolds. The proud marigold isn’t exactly known for inspiring a line of wonderfully fragrant perfumes. I also remember the fun we all had that day. I think we felt a little special since we were getting to plant flowers in the courtyard and other classes were not. We watched our hardy marigolds from our classroom until summer break, proud of having added to the school if even only for a moment.
I debated Monday between a tray of yellow marigolds and a couple of larger orange marigolds. After deciding on the orange, I selected a few other plants to add to the planter before scanning the rows for more blooming plants to finish off the arrangement. And that’s when I came back to the petunias. I’d circled the petunias all morning, drawn yet pensive to their allure. They were apparently flirting to be picked up.
Petunias always remind me of my playhouse. I don’t think I’d started kindergarten yet when dad got me a playhouse. I’m sure mom had something to do with it too, but in my memories I’ve always associated it with dad most. It was brick-red with white trim. It had a Dutch door or half and half door and two four-glass pane windows, one on each side of the door. A white flower box ran the length of each window and was about five-inches deep. Windows and flower boxes naturally yield opportunity to grandmothers to join in the playhouse fun.
Gramps and Grandma Rutledge showed up shortly after the playhouse with potting soil (probably rich soil dug up in the woods at their house) and petunias in shades of pink and purple. I could say Grandma Rutledge had a green thumb. But let’s face it. It was really more like a green arm. Maybe even torso. Thanks to her I had beautiful petunias blooming in my flower boxes the very first summer I had my playhouse.
Framing the windows above the flower boxes were beautiful curtains made by Grandma Gordon. I can still envision the print. Picture first a blank muslin shade of cotton fabric. Next layer green shades of leaves and foliage, thickly distributed but with the muslin shade occasionally peeking through. Finally, randomly distribute pink roses across the green field. That was the fabric pattern selected by Grandma Gordon for my playhouse window curtains. There were two wonderful panels for each side with ties for each as well. I specifically remember Grandpa Gordon commenting on my playhouse. I’m guessing his job was to mount the curtain rods.
Once I’d moved my metal toy yellow-with-hues-of-orange appliances (it was the seventies remember!) into the playhouse, I felt like I had the best home on the block.
It was really just a quick and simple trip to select random flowers and plants. But it quickly evolved into perhaps the most memorable hour of the week.
A Robynn’s Chirps 