Floral Time Travel

Posted on by hiddenspacesblog

Lockdown in Prague is slowly ending and we have been blessed with quite a few sunny, if not exceedingly warm, spring days. Since I have not been able to travel in recent months, I was having difficulty coming up with a topic for my blog. Yet, in recent days, my mind has kept wandering back to my hometown in northern Missouri and the first enchanted garden I came to know in the 800 block of Hansen Avenue.

I was an awkward kid who grew into an awkward adult. But one thing I always recall when spring arrives each year in the escape provide by gardening in my yard and improving my flower beds using skills learned from my neighbor Elsie. Spring was always a time of cleaning: raking leaves out of flower beds, weeding around bulbs that were sure to soon send up their first shoots and trimming the borders of various garden areas and shoring up the rocks and railroad ties that formed them.

As my mind walks through that garden of some 35 years ago, my first thought it of coreopsis and black-eyed susans. Those vibrant yellow flowers in a circular bed near the street curb  welcomed all those who walked up my neighbor’s driveway. From that small patch, interspersed with irises of different shades, we would walk along the row of bridal’s wreath spirea that provided a nice, natural foundation to the front of the house. The spirea was also a lovely, mid-spring bloom that cast long fountains of ivory flowers downward toward a lawn filled with sheep’s sorrel – which I quickly learned had a tangy, lemony taste. Then, moving the right of the house and walking toward the back lot, there was just a tiny strip of mums and succulents that did their best to thrive in the overly-shaded side yard more or less hidden by the house next door. Only when one arrived toward the back porch did more colorful shrubs (lilacs, quince and wild roses) and bunches of peonies begin to fill the landscape with lush green leaves. Peonies of every hue imaginable: deep purples or violets, crisp whites and soft, pastel pinks that announced to all visitors that spring was out in full force.

The path to the back of the yard was lined with an ample hedge of both white and purple lilacs, along with a deeper purple bloom that Elsie called French lilac. They had an equally lovely scent as that of traditional lilacs, albeit with smaller, more delicate and darker flowers. Those purple sprays then gave way to a number of quince bushes which sat, as did the lilacs, under an immense persimmon tree. It was toward the back of the garden that many of the spring flowers ceded place to plants that would bloom in early or late summer: asters, Jerusalem artichokes (what we also called Missouri sunflower) and various sets of roses (both wild and cultivated). As the garden soil progressed into a rockier, rougher terrain toward the back alley of the lot, more roses peaked out through spaces they carved out for themselves in a lush bed of vinca minor (which we usually called periwinkle).

It was the repetition of this garden tour that taught me all about the therapy offered by gardening. I learned when and how to plant specific varieties and to save transplanting peonies till late summer – right after the gladiola had bloomed. It was transplanting time that would become a favorite moment in my year, where I would proudly bring my neighbor a shade of iris I knew she did not have; or she would provide me roots for peonies in new colors that would add to the alleys of those flowers at the back of our family’s lot.

So many years ago, but I still travel (in my mind) back to Hansen Avenue every spring. I remind myself of the flower names and types that Elsie so carefully planted in my head: Hosta, sempervirens, Solomon’s seal and more. Although that garden no longer stands, it blooms in my heart each spring: as I see the first flowers on the lily of the valley, or notice the lush pink of the bleeding hearts and the faded yellow of the forsythia flowers that have run their course. With all those colors, scents and memories of floral names, my heart becomes full and I appreciate the repetition of these memory-travels. Although I will never likely return in person, my mind always has a ticket those gardens of my childhood and their announcement of spring.

Living in three spaces

Posted on by hiddenspacesblog

I haven’t felt like blogging for a while. Or perhaps it’s more that I didn’t know where to go with my writing. It’s been half a year now since I returned (unexpectedly) from northern Armenia.  Now is the moment where the change starts to gel or solidify. I realize that, while I can still hold a conversation in հայերեն, it’s more difficult to recall words that used to be commonplace.  Memories are beginning to fade, and moments of daily life are more distant … saying hello to Manvel who lived in the first floor of my building. He knew three sentences in English, but he greeted me religiously every time I walked by. Always reminding me that I was welcome in Vanadzor and in Armenia in general.  I miss the moments spent persuading fruit and veg vendors that Russian wasn’t my native tongue, and that I could get through a conversation in my pigeon Armenian. I miss the lady from my “beer garden” in Tigran Mets Avenue, who gradually got used to my arriving mid-afternoon on Saturdays after a hike: book in hand, just me, myself and I … ready for a cold draught beer. 

Now as the Czech summer ends and I watch videos, listen to songs, or browse through photos so I can cling to the recollections of my Armenian adventure, I gradually merge the similarities of three specific places I once called home. 

I’m a rural person at heart. I spent my childhood wanting to escape small town life. My dad had aspirations that I would become a farmer and work with animals: as had been his dream. But my hopes went farther. I’m not sure if it was the genetics of my ever-moving paternal grandmother or the travel tales recounted by my very wise neighbor. But I knew I wanted life beyond any local farm. Funny thing is though: despite becoming a city-slicker, I never forsook my rural upbringing or time spent working with my dad, uncles and grandmother. It is the long thread of rural life that, for me, binds Missouri with rural Bohemia and the pastures of Armenia’s Lorri region. In the fields of all those lands, I see and feel the memory of my dad and his dreams; secretly hoping that some of my life’s adventures have made him proud.

Good people are worth listening to. Something inside me tends to be averse to seeking out conversation. However, many places I have lived so easily lent themselves to impromptu chats and discussion. Whether it be the doorways of stores on Brookfield’s Main Street, the garden pub of a Czech village along a random bike route, or the encounters with shepherds as they moved their herds between northern Armenia’s lush, green hills. They all began as strangers to me, yet we ended with many bonds: some had family that had emigrated, others had seen American TV shows or had travelled to Prague on a family holiday. It was my wary, skeptical entries into these numerous, ad hoc chats that confirmed to me that as citizens of the world we are all ostensibly different but very much still the same in our curiosity and desire to learn about and connect with others.

The women of my past prepared me for my future.  Then there’s the W factor. As mentioned above, it was the women of my childhood who told me of the world outside my hometown. They assured me that studying and hard work would give me access to that world. And as the years prove them right, I remember and channel their spirits as I mull new adventures and live new experiences. In my mind, I talked to Elsie as I admired the gardens of many an Armenian grandmother. I give thanks to Louise and Mildred for their nurturing my interest in languages and travel and for helping make possible my first TWA flight to Paris. I summon the courage of Jacqueline anytime I’m not sure I have what it takes to defend myself and fight for what is just in the world. How she so nonchalantly stated in that Parisian tailor’s shop: I survived the Nazis; I’m hardly going to cower to a greedy, deceitful clothing store owner.

It’s been a difficult summer reminiscing about my homes old and new. But I am forever grateful for the lessons they taught me and the people from those places who enriched my spirit more than I ever could have imagined.