May 16, 2008

• …old-fashioned flowers are blooming in the yard.

                                                

  Snowballs, peonies, iris, bridal wreath….all the names that are synonymous with spring are out-doing themselves this year. And in spite of modern scientific methods, these reliable, faithful plants have not been greatly improved upon in centuries. Look around any old abandoned houseplace, and these are the flowers you’ll see, blooming amid the weeds and vines, neglected but still managing to live and share their beauty.

  When I was a little girl, I didn’t really like iris, for some reason, but now they are one of my favorites.

                                      

  Not only are they beautiful, but some of them have a delightful fragrance, as well. This is one of the old-fashioned flowers that conjures up memories for so many of us. In the good old days, they were often referred to as “flags.” That is what my great-grandmothers called iris. Grandma Pitchford and Granny Bushong both grew purple and yellow ones, but neither one had any of the new-fangled, fancied-up ones.

               

  My iris varieties were given to me by a dear lady named Sammy Jo Blundell. She was our next-farm neighbor when we lived in Noxubee County, Mississippi. Miss Sammy Jo, as she was called by anyone younger than herself, lived in a big, beautiful, white-columned antebellum house out in the country. It was the kind of house one daydreamed about living in, complete with visions of spring weddings held on the lawn, replete with masses of flowers, under the canopy of the ancient oak trees.

  I can’t think of a more quintessential picture of the Old South than the Blundells’ home. To approach it, one turned off the highway and drove down a long, straight, dirt lane. On both sides of the lane, fences kept back cattle that were peacefully grazing on deep green grass. Upon reaching the yard, a circular drive led you around to the massive double front doors, and that circle was lined with an amazing variety of iris. When these flowers were all blooming, it was a sight to behold!

                                  

  Miss Sammy Jo kept her granddaughter after school, and since the child was the same age as one of ours, we often carpooled together. One day when I was there dropping off the little girl, the iris were putting on a show. Miss Sammy Jo came outside to wave, and I commented about the beauty of her flowers.

                                 

  This sweet lady immediately offered to share some plants with me! Of course, I protested that I didn’t know how to grow iris, and that I wouldn’t want to disturb her beautiful beds. She said, “Nonsense! The best thing you can do for your flowers is to share them with friends. Someone shared these with me a long time ago!”

  And that’s just what Miss Sammy Jo did. This southern belle was no shrinking violet; she quickly procured a shovel and went to work, right then and there, digging up “starts” of fourteen different varieties of iris. She said, “This is the time to do it, when they are blooming, so you’ll know what you are getting.”

  I had no idea of what to do with my starts, and Miss Sammy Jo said to just dig up a bed in the sun and stick them in the ground. She told me that iris don’t prefer fertile soil, so our clay-gumbo yard would be fine. And she reminded me to not bury them, but to shallow plant them.

  Those iris bloomed in our Mississippi yard for another half-dozen years, until we moved back to Missouri, when one of the boxes we packed was filled with starts of all fourteen varieties. I transplanted them into the yard at Brixey, where we lived that first year, and then I divided those plants and brought starts to our “new” house, when we moved into it in 1988. Twenty springs later, the iris are blooming away in rocky Ozarks’ soil.

  At the top of our driveway are five huge peony bushes, ready to burst into colorful bloom.  

                                   

  These bushes are also courtesy of another gardener, although I’ll never know her name. On a high hilltop on the farm, an old houseplace was tumbling down, and, knowing my love of old-fashioned flowers, my father-in-law called and asked if I wanted to transplant some peonies that were just ready to bloom, before he dozed the place. Of course, I grabbed my shovel, jumped in the truck and headed off. Although I broke all the rules, since it wasn’t the right time of year to transplant peonies, the plants have survived and thrived and are ready to share their blooms with me again. They aren’t the huge, double blooms of the new varieties of peonies, but they are so pretty and have a heavenly fragrance that perfumes the whole yard.

  Ferns, forsythia, ivy, vinca and more…I have had the benefit of the generosity of a number of other gardeners through the years. Likewise, I love to share my flowers with anyone who asks for a start. Last night I dug iris rhizomes for a neighbor who recently mentioned she’d like to have one that she referred to as a “blush” color.

                                  

  I went ahead and got every color I had, knowing that she was just hesitant to sound greedy and ask for them all. Next spring, my neighbor will enjoy the blooms that Miss Sammy Jo passed to me so many years ago. Sharing them just seems to make them prettier.

  • 11:24 am
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