My first real memory of flowers coincides with Mother’s Day. As in many parts of the country, we wore blooms pinned to our lapels or dresses as we went to church on Mother’s Day: red roses if our mothers were still alive or white if they had died. For my family that meant gathering the buds of wild roses that grew on the property – whites grew amongst the piney scrub on a steep embankment across the road from our driveway, while, in the back yard, the red roses climbed a weathered trestle that stood alongside a little brick-colored dog house with a sturdy, asphalt-shingled roof that my father built for a sweet mutt named Mingo.
At the time, Mom, Dad, Sister and I all wore red roses but we picked the white ones to share with my grandmothers and also to assemble into little bouquets that were destined for the Old Piney Church cemetery where some of my great grandparents rested. Mother’s Day was, and still is Decoration Day for this cemetery that now holds my father’s parents, his brother and a nephew – my cousin, who was born only three months after me.
That may strike some of you as maudlin, or perhaps more evidence that the predilections of the Southern Gothic are not limited to states of mind in the deeper south. But for me, it wasn’t necessarily a sad time – it was family time that had some lessons about mortality but mostly I remember my mother’s hand and feeling the comfort and warmth of her presence as we placed the flowers, taking care not to step on anyone’s grave. Now it reminds me to treasure the family that I can still see.
I’m still fond of holding my mother’s hand, and I’m grateful for that; nothing quite calms the troubled mind like her big hugs or eases sorrow like a good cry on her shoulder. But when I look back on those days when I was about 4 feet tall and clad in a blue polyester suit gathering flowers early on Mother’s Day, I’m reminded of just how sweet my youth was, of how fortunate I was to live where wild roses grew, and of how good it was to have a mother who cared enough about the memory of relatives long gone to decorate their resting places with little bouquets – humble and wild though they were.
I suppose there are few of us who can claim an untroubled relationship with mom or dad or anyone, really, but I hope that if you think hard enough you can find one or two, maybe thousands of moments that make you happy to call someone Mom. And perhaps you’ll be seeing that person on Mother’s Day.
Like many holidays, Mother’s Day is easy to phone in or gloss over with a glittery, silly or sentimental card from the grocery. And if, like my Mom, yours has been forgotten a few times, she may be happy just to be remembered – and really that’s enough. But, as we’ve often written in this blog, it’s worth taking the time to do something special to really remember the person you love instead of just not forgetting the date or anniversary or whatever. So, get the card, but don’t forget the kiss. And if it’s flowers that you give, try to remember her favorite kind. And best of all save some of your time and spend it with her.