Flowers from the Past

As mentioned in my prior post, my mother always had so many stories to tell of her life that I have decided to include some of her stories here as some of my blog entries. After much prompting from  my sister and me, we convinced her to put her thoughts and stories in writing. So at the young age of 81, she wrote her first story. Although somewhat long, here is another of her writings. Hope you enjoy this one.


THE PART FLOWERS PLAYED IN MY LIFE
By Veronica West

My maternal grandmother and my mother about whom I've referred often in my stories had a deep love and understanding of flowers. Even though I was born in a small rented clapboard house, the yard was always beautiful. In this part of my story I shall be talking of its gardens often. My mother was an artist. It was the style in the the early 1900's to decorate the ribbons used on bassinets or on little pillows or pillow cases, so my mother was always giving new babies these rosettes, ribbons painted with delicate forget-me-nots. So even before my birth, while still in her womb, I'm sure these ribbons must have been in her lap, and the tiny brush in her hand as she fashioned the flowers and as she worked on my tiny little baby book, a little 4" by 6" pink cloth with these little sprays of white and pink blossomss and "Our Baby" painted in   white, as she anticipated my birth. Later in life upon opening and thumbing through the book, one finds, name, place of birth, time of birth, parents, height, weight, first picture, etc. Next came baby's gifts - the usual things - lace cap, silver spoon, picture frame, and then these three gifts which always seemed a bit odd:  a bunch of violets, a bunch of jonquils, and a bunch of hyacinths. It must have been an early spring for these flowers to have been in bloom as I have a February birth date. Maybe these friends did not pay me a visit until I was older. See as I write this I am 81 years old. All these people and my parents are dead, so I'm imagining who brought them to me. I imagine Aunt Beck (Rebecca) our laundry lady who adored my family brought the hyacinths. Miss Robbie, to be my piano teacher beginning when I was 9, possibly brought the jonquils. Aunt Fereby gave me the violets. She was a sort of amazon African-American who roamed the streets of our little town. She knew everyone and everyone knew Aunt Fereby. She always appeared seemingly from no place offering her services for free in any way she could help. Often she was found caring for the sick (and a real nurse she was), visiting to see the new babies and newcomers to our little town. Everyone loved Aunt Fereby. She was always clean and I'm certain she invented the style called "layered clothing". It seemed she would have more different skirts on at the same time - some long and full, covered with shorter ones, then a few over them wrapped sarong-like. Then of course she had 3 or 4 different sizes and shapes of aprons, then to add to her ensemble: 2 or 3 long sleeved black, brown or gray blouses or men's shirts. She wore some type of tight skull cap - very tight fitting, or more often a large stretched stocking folded over and over. On her feet were huge flip floppy shoes - toes cut out by her. I always felt she must have had terrible corns. Aunt Fereby was highly respected by all, particularly the business men of the community. I've enumerated my first introduction to hyacinths, jonquils and violets, which remain some of m favorite flowers today. And let's not forget the darling little forget-me-nots on the crib bows and my baby book.


I think my next association with flowers would have to be about at age 3. My mother had gone to the big city to do Christmas shopping and I was in the company of my beloved grandmother. She was a marvelous storyteller, entertainer and she would read to me many stories, but also she had her many chores to get done. My father would be coming home form the Post Office for his lunch, so she had gone to the kitchen and I was in the adjoining small bedroom. Oh goody, goody - all alone! Now let me look around. What is the most beautiful object in this drab old room, with a huge old bed, dresser, table and chairs towering over me? Ah! what have I found on this little, neat "tabouretNarcissus. I love them still at age 81, and will refer to them again later in this story.


My next awareness of the beauty of flowers came at about age 6. It seems I was always dressed up in lovely, fancy dresses that were carefully hand-made by my mother. This particular time I was dressed in a gorgeous white batiste dress with a long waistline and a large blue satin sash ending in a huge bow over the left side. A large round Bertha edged in round-thread lace was around the top of the dress at the neck. Black patent leather shoes and 3/4 length white silk socks finished my outfit. My black straight hair cut short with bangs Buster Brown style was shining as an ebony crow. A silver locket was around my neck. I'm sure my parents thought me such a beauty they ran immediately for their box-type No 2A Brownie Kodak camera. Now to find the proper place for the photograph. Ah! Here in front of the large bay window stood a huge rose bush much, much taller than I. They placed me very close and I outstretched my small hand quite discreetly, fearful lest one of those huge thorns should prick my fingers. The blooms were the faintest pink. I remember only seeing that same tint in the center of a conch shell. In no hothouse have I ever seen more perfect blossoms. They reminded me of the ones on Miss Hattie's Sunday hat. Having prepared the soil for the bush with the proper amount of soil, sand and fertilizer, my parents would set the small shoots in place. They would keep the shoots under a fruit jar to protect them from the elements. My parents knew all the requirements. I never quite understoond why their flowers were always more abundant and perfect in every detail. I can't remember the names. Seems this particular one was Queen Anne, my favorite. Then there was American Pride, American Beauty and Promise.


Now let's move on about two years later. I was so consumed with my love for the many, many plants and flowers, I begged to have my own little plot of soil. When the time came for preparing the garden, I was allowed to go to the corner market and to choose a packet of seeds. My grandmother read carefully the directions on the packet. She cautioned me to drop the specified amount of seeds the exact difference of space between them. Then came the task of covering over with the soil, making ready for watering. So at intervals I continued to water. It seems I never grew tired and I never forgot it was with God's intervention supplying the sun that at the proper time I would begin to see the little shoots emerge from their bed. I was ecstatic! I watched eagerly as each day passed and first the buds and then the blooms of the Balsam flowers shone their proud faces. My mother always called them Balsam. Today everyone refers to this flower as Impatience. The first time I , as an adult glimpsed it growing in a garden, I remarked about the pretty Balsam, and all my friends yelled “No, that's Impatience.” To me it will always remain as my first flower grown in my garden – Balsam. I'll never understand the why, but throughout my life I never sowed another seed, nor planted a garden. But I was always surrounded by gardens created by my mother that would have surpassed any English garden. I became familiar with a large number of flowers. I think I'll comment on some of them now.

One of my favorites, in addition to the ones already mentioned, are Nasturtium. I must interject my first experience with them. As I was an only child I often had to accompany my mother as she visited friends in our little village. Her favorite friend was Mrs. Annie Mae, a beautiful lady, always dressed impeccably who lived in a much finer home than ours. I was a devil when around her and it was because I was so jealous of the time my mother spent in visits with her. I wanted to share their conversations and to be the center of activities. Mrs. Annie had shiny hardwood floors, covered with Oriental rugs and a Victrola enclosed in a shiny polished console. On top of this console was an ecru crocheted doily my mother had giver her. In the center of that doily sat a hand painted blue vase. My mother taught art and china painting and Mrs. Annie studied with her. I always got to watch my parents load and fire the kiln at night. In that beautiful vase were the golden nasturtiums so gracefully arranged. On the wall she had painted a picture of the still-life. I would sit and gaze at this corner of the room as she and mother would carry on their boring, gossipy conversation. Mrs. Annie loved me and I knew it even though she often said I was incorrigible. She never did have any children. She told me, when I became an adult, of times I pushed her off our porch. She knew it was because I was a child and wanted her to talk to me. I bit her on one visit. I never knew until I had children of my own and was visiting Nance (Mrs. Annie Brinkley's nickname) and she told me when I married she was not quite as wealthy as they had once been and that she knew how I loved that vase. It was really a round fat squatty china one. She and her husband were hurrying to come to town (my family had left our small town and moved to the Capital of the state), and she had very carefully wrapped the vase in white tissue paper preparing to place it in a box, and she was crushing the paper around it when it slipped from her hands and crashed on the bare floor. She finished the story by telling me she sat down and cried and later chose me a small piece of cut glass to bring me. I could imagine that vase filled with the lovely nasturtiums in my home. My mother had a few in her garden in the city but I never remembered any as I did the round, blue vase in Mrs. Annie's "parlor".


Now I've become 15 years old, and due to my precocious childhood skipping grades, I'm to graduate with honors (26 in the small county high school class). I was to be Valedictorian. My mother had made my dress, which resembled a Prom dress of later years. It had white satin short skirt with beautiful lace over it, with a long bodice below the hips with a white rose on the side. I watched her meticulously make the rose, taking strips of material and shaping it around and around until the finished product - a perfect rose. Each of the 14 girls was to have one long-stemmed red rose. Not me. I was very much in love, even though just 15, with Robert Murray. R.M. as we called him had an older sister who lived and worked in the nearby city. So she made sure Robert sent me a dozen pink roses with Baby's Breath and a large pink bow. Never had I been so thrilled?

The whole evening which started out so heavenly turned into a nightmare. There were many gifts to open, a dinner with friends before leaving the house, and my mother giving me a dose of paregoric to steady my nerves. My father said she had given me too much of that and that I would fall asleep. The piano bench and the No2A Brownie Kodak were brought into the yard and I was seated for photographs with my lovely flowers in my lap. What bliss!! What impatience!! I would not get to see R.M. until we got to the school. We had no car so we walked the mile in old shoes to keep my white shoes clean. And I almost forgot - I had on my first long full-fashioned hose. I had worn 3/4 length socks and pleaded for the hose. Let's imagine now the scene at our high school. It was always a highly accredited one - never any trouble for a graduate to gain entrance into any prestigious university. Oh! there comes R.M. to meet us. My parents and grandmother went on into the auditorium to get ringside seats. R.M. motions me into the library. Naturally I was so eager to kiss him (puppy love or was it? I never really knew.). and to thank him for the lovely flowers. But I could see he was downcast, hurt. He told his agony. At the last minute the "mean, old" algebra teacher had failed him and he'd been told he would not get his diploma. There had been times when students had received blank pieces of paper to save the dishonor of friends knowing the story. So he was telling me he was going home and not staying. I knew his mother and sister were already seated and were not even aware. I begged -I pleaded selfishly for him to just sit on the stage and I even considered getting the entire class to boycott and not even go near the graduation. The teachers appeared at the door to line us up and the music started. I kept looking back and just to please me he marched in, head erect, and sat on the stage and heard me deliver my address.

Later in life his sister told me that was the saddest day of her life and had she known, they would have taken him and gone home. I always loved him. I always loved the beautiful roses, knowing I was the only girl who had received any. He had a car, so we drove to my little home together and I was so proud of him and the entire class - his poor little face so red, as diplomas and names called out, but I kept smiling at him. He was a sweet boy, blond curly hair, small features, nice background. It's true he did not study as he should. He drank a little, never around me. There were other boys in class far dumber than he, but he was from the country and no father to fight for him.


By now my life becomes completely changed. Our family left the little hamlet and moved near the University I was to enter in the fall. To finish the R.M. story, he came also and got a job. We continued dating for two years - movies, lunches, swimming, concerts, football games - still in love. Marriage was planned in two more years. I had taken ballroom dancing lessons. This fatal night arrived. There was to be a big dance in Kentucky. One of the boys who had helped in the studio when I had my lessons was going with his date. The dance teacher begged my father to let R.M. and me go, too. My father was quite skeptical but gave his consent very reluctantly. This was to be an indescribable time for me, for that very night I felt I had become an adult even though I was only 17.  I danced with many, many boys because I had become a good dancer.

Sumner, the boy who drove, danced a lot with me. He was a large, handsome one in a white, linen suit.  Poor, poor R.M. It seems I began to feel very differently about everything. When we arrived back in the city, Sumner's date and R.M. were taken home first because Sumner and I lived near one another. Something snapped in me, however I continued to date R.M. It must have been about 6 months later, Sumner finally called and asked for a date. I walked on air the entire week. I studied so hard and practiced piano so diligently, I did not date until weekends. 

The Saturday finally arrived. I went to class on campus - was out at noon. My father picked me up. We had a car by then. We arrived home. Our nice brick home had a side porch with double glass doors entering the dining room. As you entered those doors one could see directly across the length of the living room. As I skipped up the porch, opening the doors, what a sight to behold and what a thrill! On a large octagonal table with a tapestry runner sat the largest pot of bluish, purplish hydrangeas I had ever seen. It was near Easter. I exclaimed "Mother, what is this?" I found the card and tore it open - "Love, Sumner". My pretty dozen roses at graduation faded into oblivion. I spent the rest of the afternoon getting primped for my date. I was always clean, neat, had nice clothes, but this was to be a metamorphosis. I'm emerging from my cocoon - no young girl feeling anymore. We went to a movie with his brother and sister-in-law. I felt a little ill at ease. I didn't seem to be as experienced as they. I felt very country, but they were very nice to me. We,parted with the "I'll call you". This turned out to be the start of a romance led to marriage, and R.M. went back home to the country. I saw him several years later, he married and went to World War II and our paths never crossed. My flowers were always on that table almost every Saturday from then until our marriage 2 years later. He loved my mother and it was mutual.


I will tell you about their project. I called it "Mother's Rock Garden" with 150 different wildflowers. I found a list after she died of when and where we found the flowers. Sumner's parents owned some land in an adjoining county. He took a crew of Negro helpers and dug up huge rocks, loaded them into a truck and brought them to our home. Day in and day out they all worked diligently placing each rock in its proper position. It ended up being two fish ponds with a waterfall, with water lilies from the gardens in Centennial Park. Mother shared things with the gardener there.

My father, maternal grandmother and I were just spectators in this project. It was Mother's and Sumner's, except when we would have family picnics searching for wildflowers, not to ruin and destroy,  because you see ecology is nothing new to me. At age 6, I was taught and had explained to me the balance of nature. My mother, who had quite a green thumb, knew exactly how to dig them, how to leave the soil and roots around them, and then how to transplant them from their favorite wooded spots to soil and conditions they were accustomed to in the rock garden and around her pools. At her death I found a tiny notepad and a tiny, tiny pencil where she had listed 102 wildflowers growing in her garden. I knew practically all of them by name. Did I need to learn this in a course in Botany? Wasn't this much more vivid?

I screamed so loudly on one of these expeditions that my father, who was a little cowardly and not too fond of these jaunts said, "Oh, no - I knew it. The 'Baby' (as I was always called) has probably come across a snake!" My tiny, bold grandmother, who had lived through the Civil War triumphantly and run a farm, and who, in her own words "wasn't afraid of the 'very old scratch'', ran to my rescue to find nothing more than I had found the first Jack-in-the-Pulpit for the day. Oh, the pride as spring beauties, mayapples, wild columbine, Dutchman's Breeches, bluebells, anemone, jack-in-the-pulpit, dog tooth violets to name a few filled out that garden. This was truly a work of art and showplace for countless visitors who came streaming in on Sunday afternoons just after our dinner.

Well I must close this chapter of my life. My life changed drastically after this as, Sumner was killed in a motorcycle accident. I don't seem to remember any affect of flowers on me from his funeral pall of white lilies and red roses - his favorite flowers. Life was shattered. I sat in our small music room late at night sitting by his coffin. Some 50 years later as I write this it seems the fragrance from that pall still is wafted upwards in my nostrils.


I have no memory of any more flowers for awhile. Oh!I do remember. I visited a dear friend of my father's in Cleveland, Ohio. She had visited my aunt in Nashville and I fell in love with her. She was then about 60 and the cutest little thing I had ever seen. She had lived a hard life, had lost her first husband when she was young. She had lost her only daughter when the daughter was 16. She had adored this beautiful girl. She went every week to the cemetery and took flowers and also put fresh flowers by her picture in the apartment. I
called her 'Aunt Nan'. She seemed to fall in love with me and it was mutual. I always felt that somehow I replaced her beloved daughter. She had worked in Halle's - I believe was the store - some big, fashionable ladies' apparel store in Cleveland. Here she learned all about lovely clothes and dressed beautifully. In the course of time she met a very rich Jew, vice President of Republic Steel. So she, whom I call 'Aunt Nan' and 'Uncle Julius' invited me to visit them in their very swanky apartment in Cleveland. I stayed one month and this
is the most wonderful time of my life. I was really wined and dined. She taught me all the finer graces. They took me everywhere. We spent one weekend at Niagara Falls. All their friends were high society and rich; however, gambling had overtaken them and they were about to lose these friends. I dated every night and if not I went with them to some of the places I shall now describe. One was the Harvard Club, where you only wore dress clothes - black tie for the men and evening dresses for the ladies. Membership cost $1000 back
then. That was very exclusive, but sad to say, they frequented some not so elite. One in particular they called "Himmelsteins" for the fat, jovial German owner. Here we would go to play Bingo for $1000 card pay-offs. Now don't be fooled - very few went home with the winnings. You see, Bingo was only the cover up. Later, Bingo would be ended. The majority of the players went home. Then the night really began, as a good many of the richer customers paid dues and belonged to a private club. Then you left the huge room, where we had
been, and went through a back door. You presented your membership card. This beautiful, buxom blonde German girl sat at a beautiful desk. Under her right foot was a button or something. I never quite figured it all out but she would inconspicuously press with her right foot and the entrance door to another room would open up and you would enter where all the Las Vegas type gambling was taking place. Aunt Nan played them all but she preferred roulette. What a sight this little lady made - gorgeous clothes, dripping in diamond jewelry, cigarette always hanging from her lips. If not a cigarette, constantly chewing gum to the rhythm of the dice rolling and stopping while they landed on the red or black numbers. See it was in their blood.

A regular ritual took place every night before we left home. It would start at the dinner table. "No we aren't going tonight." They knew full well the routine. She would dress. He would nap on the living room sofa. Then she would awaken him and here we'd be off. I got a little bored at these evenings until that is one evening. I was standing at the dice tablet just watching and to my utter surprise I kept hearing this jargon from the croupier. Place your bets now, hurry up, make up your minds. The beautiful young lady in the black net dress place your bets. Step right up - don't be frightened. Everybody wins over and over and over." Well it suddenly dawned on me - the little young, inexperienced girl. My mother always made me lovely clothes, after I had designed them and told her just what I wanted. This was a short pleated skirt a black satin slip underneath and the top of the blouse of the slip was a flesh colored crepe which looked very risque for me because it looked as if bare on the shoulders of the dress even though it was buttoned up high with jet black buttons and had a round, Buster Brown, white pique collar.

The croupier's name was Bill. I'm sure I must have blushed allover. I never did bet, but on his break he made it a point to ferret me out and oh! my heart was about to leap out. Fortunately, he knew I was with Aunt Nan and he adored her. He told me night after night about that darling little old couple there. My oh my, I got a liberal education in a short time. I could write a book about the outcome of that meeting. He gave me money and I learned a little about playing. I was what they call a She'll(I think it was) for the house, in other words, a come on player for the house. He would give me my stack of chips and let me have a winning streak and that would draw the crowd.

Of course this dumb little girl was awestruck by all the glamour, and then, with Aunt Nan and Uncle Julius a little leery about it, I began to date Bill. I was scared stiff but oh the places we did go and what an education I got. You see all of this was connected with the underworld one night we were walking downtown window gazing and this big huge black stretch limo stops abruptly and calls Bill over to the curb. They all knew me oh my mind was whirling just like in the movies I could imagine Al Capone and all the cohorts in the car and I was Bill's mole (silly me). He never told me what it was about. He said they only needed him to work early shift next night. He took me to the race tracks just at dawn to show me the trainer taking the horses around for early practice. What an experience, dew and mist over the track, then the sun slowly emerging.

Oh! I'm sorry this is about flowers isn't it? Back up now to Mrs. Himmelsteins lady friend. Aunt Nan told me all the story. He had brought her as a very young Fraulein over from Germany. He took care of her. As she matured, she became his mistress. Aunt Nan said his wife was a gorgeous looking lady but he never allowed her to come to the gambling establishment. Now for the part flowers played in this story. They had no direct part of my life but the impression they made on me. Each night she looked like a fashion plate. I'm sure she was made up and hair coiffured every night by a professional, on her desk a beautiful floral arrangement. Not just your usual "bunch of flowers". Each night something different and the color of the flowers would be accentuated by her gown which would pick up the same colors. I shall always remember my first experience with the flowers, Bird of Paradise, a small translucent tall vase and about 3 standing proud and erect. The flower, she explained to me (remember I thought I knew flowers through my mother's knowledge of them) were Bird of Paradise. I began then to love them. Her gown picked up the bold blue, white and gold. Her shoulders and arms were quite bare, looking like alabaster. It was quite easy to see Mr. Himmelsteins fascination with her. Another night another flower grown. Mostly she told me quite profusely grow in Hawaii - Anthurium. I never really learned to care for this one. Colors too bold that queer shade of a sad red, so stiff, so bold, so odd and then I well remember even though 50 years ago her dress, to me quite ugly but very colors of the flower. The colors a kind of russet and saffron just didn't appeal to me. Rather cold. Her dress just didn't seem to blend with her alabaster skin and golden hair usually swept high on top of her head, a kind of french roll, rather severe, I often thought how beautiful it would be if down and could flow loosely over her neck and shoulders but never. Maybe she thought she was a bit too large and old for that style. I have been lucky enough to have only had one Bird of Paradise to call my very own. How stately and gorgeous they were.


I have no memory of any flowers for another twelve years. You see this is when Bill, the love of my life, the father of my two adorable daughters came along. After a whirlwind romance of three months, I was a bride again. We had met on the 4th of July at a USO. I was a teacher of many years in Nashville, working in a defense factory in Detroit for two summers. He was stationed at a nearby Air Base. I was married in a small chapel in West End Methodist Church with some 65 guests. My beautiful bridal bouquet consisted of the first purple-throated orchid I had ever owned, surrounded by stephanotis, and three tube roses. They had been my deceased father's favorite flower. Oh their fragrance! The exultation was almost equal to the time I had seen Sumner's hydrangeas, when a bell boy came to our bridal suite with another fresh corsage - another orchid.

Now time passes on - glorious, happy days after the honeymoon. I put my flowers in a large book and pressed them and still have them in a desk drawer. Two years later, the natural course of events, and I'm in the hospital with the first proof of my undying love for Bill - a darling bundle of joy - 6 pound girl had arrived - Margaret. Almost as lovely was a white milk glass candy jar which arrived at my hospital room filled with
miniature sweetheart roses. It was so pretty and unusual. The lid to the candy jar was turned up and it looked like a large fan spread out. I loved that candy jar, but unfortunately, over the years, it was broken. Now shortly afterward in my new baby hospital stay, a large bouquet of one dozen red, red roses arrived to welcome the new baby. They came from our dear family friend, Frank, who had made his home with my family for many years. He was almost like a member of our family and we loved him dearly. He had come down from Canada in the 1930's and I had met him at that time. He became a naturalized American citizen at the outbreak of World War II, and served the US in action in various countries overseas. He is buried in a cemetery plot by my parents, as I had an odd lot and he did not want to return to Canada. He was just like a brother to me. In fact, I taught my daughters to refer to him as Uncle.

Life goes on - a second daughter came to bless our union - Paula. I don't remember anything about flowers in the hospital, but I vividly remember the first Sunday we got out for Church after her arrival. Two corsages of cymbidium orchids arrived - one for me and one for big sister Margaret and a tiny nosegay of sweetheart roses for baby Paula. Daddy said my pregnancy so confining and he wanted me to spruce up and really look
dashing for church. I thought we did. I had a new beige suit, a new pink straw hat and the babies were attired in handmade outfits. It was a glorious Sunday of Church, friends greeting, picture taking, an outing to the park and home for dinner.

To close this chapter of love and devotion for twenty years of bliss with a perfect husband, at 41 he was chosen to go live with his Heavenly Father, leaving a broken-hearted family behind. I can see a huge pink roses and white lilies pall standing in front of the vestibule of West End Methodist Church. I have often wished I had not gone to the expense of this gorgeous pall as the minister insisted I use the burial cover for the coffin
which Miss Effie Morgan had recently bought and presented to the Church. So I carried out his wishes. Then the US flag and Mason's apron later draped the coffin at the cemetery.


Flowers! Happiness! Sadness! I should like to close my thoughts on flowers by remembering as years passed by - daughters grown and married - a new generation and one chilly Spring morning being greeted at my back door by a darling little 5 year old grandson named for his maternal grandfather. So Bill greeted me with outstretched hand with a neatly wrapped bouquet of fresh jonquils which his mother had grown, cut and arranged for him to bring to me. What a joy! What a gleam in his eye as he outstretched his little hand for me to accept. "Grandmama for you." Of course a big hug and many, many kisses and thanks and praise followed.


So you see I've come full cycle in my life from receiving jonquils at my birth until jonquils at age 83. I shall close. Please (I hope everyone loves and memorializes flowers, i.e. real ones, as I do - no silk ones, no plastic ones, no artificial ones. When I go for that final sweet repose, I hope there'll be a bower of flowers near me and over me. I'll smell their aroma and slip away into Heaven's open gates to join all the past loved ones of my life!