Flash, flash, flash, flash goes my cursor- for five minutes, in fact.
I'm staring at a screen this morning in the dark, wondering if it’s worth it to attempt to explain why you need fresh flowers in your life and what the heck that has to do with “French-inspired living from an American perspective.” But it’s Valentine’s Day week, and so hopefully, you’ll buy them for yourself or someone will buy them for you.
‘Seems like the perfect time to visit this idea of your own version of La Vie en Rose.
I went to visit Gram again in the nursing home this past weekend. I try to go every 12 weeks - this last stretch had been 16 and it broke my heart. She is my heart. I love her with a passion similar to that of my love for my children.
It’s primal.
She is my person.
My love for gardening and flowers is no doubt, instinctual. It comes from her; passed on to her by her mother and passed to my mom from her. Flowers have always been a part of my story. From Gramma’s gardens to my mom’s beautiful peonies and snapdragon beds, to my own Giverny-inspired garden. The joy they bring and conversations thereof have always been there since my childhood.
I spent countless summer weeks with my Gram on her farm as a child and once I could drive I began to go there by myself, the season beginning in earnest once she’d get home from her snowbird adventures in Florida by about the middle of May. Many years I’d drive down to Indiana to clean for her before she got home. She hated coming home to a farmhouse full of dust and dead crickets. It was my pleasure to air out the house… removing the stale smell from the long winter, wiping everything down, vacuuming the crickets out of corners, and getting it ready for her favorite time of year.
Summer.
A few weeks later during the traditional Memorial Day weekend visit, we’d hop into her mini-van and head to her favorite nursery in Rensselaer; Brown’s. We’d arrive with the sound of gravel under the tires (one of the best sounds in the world; everything is better on gravel)………. we’d arrive to the sound of gravel under the tires and step carefully over hoses with their sprays of water leaking from the connection points. Red wagon or green shopping cart selected, we’d seek out beautiful cells of red geraniums and asparagus fern for her poolside barrels, and flats of rocket snapdragons for her annual garden beds. The greenhouse tunnel full of humidity even on a mild Memorial Day Saturday. Sometimes she’d splurge on a petunia hanging basket, and I can promise you that her tuunies never look mangy by August. These were hung from the overhang on the ‘bathhouse’ and spent flowers were broomed up daily. Everything was watered with a beautiful discipline - often by Grampa after a long day in the fields.
From Brown’s we’d head over to Annis’s grocery to the hoop house they’d have set up in the parking lot for the season. Here we might grab a few more cells of sweet alyssum, but we agreed, there was nothing like Brown’s. Neither of us ever came home empty-handed. I was young and broke and she would always treat me to a flat or two of snaps. It was like winning the lotto each year.
Gramma’s flowers were never extravagant. My lilies and lavender and fussy David Austins? You’d never find those on her farm. She was a real Indiana farmgirl and content with blackeyed susans, hollyhocks, and Grampa’s favorite “ditchplant” (aka Purple Loosestrife).
Perhaps I was simply entranced, but the woman could create and maintain perfection. And when things weren’t so perfect it was my sheer pleasure to help her by weeding. She loved her flowers.
Oddly enough, she never cut them and brought them inside.
During each summer visit, I’d head outside with a ball jar of cool water and a pair of scissors. I’d bring in my creations and arrange them just so for her kitchen counter. “You found all those out there?” she’d always ask- as if she were unaware of the variety in her beds. Gram loved her flowers, was so proud of her flowers, and my youthful memories may deceive me, but I don’t think ever thought to enjoy them inside.
These days things are different. My heart broke when they sold the farm and it’s beautiful gardens. She moved on to an assisted care facility complete with potted plants out the slider door. But, she had to say goodbye to her little patio and last pot of geraniums a few years ago when she and Grampa moved from the independent living apartment on one side of the road to the nursing home on the other side of the road.
I think saying goodbye to that pot of geraniums broke her heart too. She’d only ever intimate that though. She is strength in Jesus personified and while she might contemplate loss, she never dwells there- or if she does - she keeps it buttoned up.
Yes, these days are different. Instead of a two-hour trip to Indiana, it’s an eight-hour trip all the way around the lake from my northern Wisconsin peninsula to her home in Michigan. And instead of cruising around in a mini-van for flowers (and subsequent Dairy Queen) we sit quietly in her apartment, the only cruising is down the hall to visit her bestie and centenarian, Olga.
There is one thing that’s the same though-
Flowers.
Without fail, three hours into my trip to see Gram I finally make it to Milwaukee, and like a moth to a flame, I exit Silver Springs Drive and head straight for Trader Joe’s. There, I grab a fresh bouquet and a potted flower for her windowsill the idea being flowers to enjoy while I’m there and flowers to enjoy after I leave.
Gramma loves her flowers. She proudly shares them with every worker that comes into her room to check on her. One year around Christmas, I brought her this miniature poinsettia (not even my favorite, but it was so small and sprayed with glitter - I couldn’t refuse). She popped that little thing in the cupholder of her walker and carried it around for months. Yes, Gramma loves her flowers. Her bedroom boasts a huge poster of her next to her prized rocket snapdragons. (I’ll bring her a bouquet of my garden’s snaps this summer).
Flowers brighten her day. They’re good for her. She knows it.
We can learn so much from Gram, but we’ll keep it to flowers today.
On my Paris with Angela trips it’s always a pleasure for me to know we’re around the corner from a flower shop when walking with my guests. When I point it out, they always stop and drool at the pots and plants literally spilling out of the doorway. At our first flea market, (Place d’Aligre) bouquets are piled three feet high on the tables and I have repeat guests who are seasoned pros and they’ll stop off for a bouquet for their hotel room. A few days later we find ourselves at Monet’s Giverny (a dream come true for many of them) and quite often tears are shed at being in the presence of such a magnificent array of flowers.
Flowers. Flowers. Flowers. Even in Paris.
So what does Gramma instinctively know about the importance of flowers?
What draws me from the highway to Trader Joe’s?
Why are flowers available in such beautiful abundance in Paris?
Why do we need them in our lives whether from a curated garden or an “invasive species” cut from a local ditch?
With Valentine’s Day right around the corner, flowers are even more accessible than normal. It’s my opinion that you should never wait for someone to buy them for you, but, in any way that you can afford, treat them to yourself regularly - let it be a bonus if your significant other treats you an arrangement now and again - but for heaven’s sake - don’t wait for it:)
It’s no wonder flowers are good for our mental wellbeing. A bouquet instantly transforms a space, adding beauty, color, and a refreshing scent. Whether in a grand foyer, a cozy kitchen, or a bedside table, flowers make a house feel more inviting and alive whether it’s Gram’s nursing home bay window or your suburban ranch countertop.
Even a single stem in a bottle on a powder room sink can do the trick.
Studies show that flowers can uplift mood, reduce stress, and even improve productivity. Their colors, scents, and natural beauty create a sense of well-being, and often joy. When visiting Gram this weekend, we “cruised” down to Olga’s room and there Olga shared with us with joy and pride, the beautiful roses her son had bought her. She’s turning 101 this year and for Christmas he gifted her a bouquet of the month club. Her vision is fading fast, but through cloudy eyes, she is still absorbed by their beauty.
Flowers are a love language. For my Gram, they once were a way for her to share her love with me and now they are a way for me to share my love with her. From treating a broke newlywed to a flat of snapdragons to a bouquet for a nursing room bay window. Learn the preferred flowers of the people you love. Carnations are my Juliette’s absolute favorite… white lilies with pink inside move my Amélie’s soul she loves them so much. For heaven’s sake - learn your own favorites too.
Take a cue from Gram. Take a cue from the French and in our own American way, let’s not deny ourselves, but live a life… a la vie en rose - with flowers. Always.
To say that this post brought tears to my eyes is an understatement. You see I grew up a few miles from Rensselaer, IN. My parents shoppped there for years...making the rather quick drive from Monon to Rensselaer. Our proms were held at St Joseph's College. My parents shopped at Brown's nursery and I worked for one of the Annis Brothers at his IGA in Monon. Needless to say this post evoked more memories of growing up on a farm in Indiana than you can ever imagine. Thank you from the bottom of my heart...PS enjoy your grandmother! Both my maternal and paternal grandparents were gone before I was born. You have a special bond that will not be broken. Thank you~!!!!!
I still take my parents flowers and plants up their favourites at their resting place. So lovely to read your love for your Gram. Thank you for sharing.
X
P.S. my favourites are Flame Lillies. The National flower of the country where I was born and spent my formative years.