Aunt Cranky's Flower Beds

It's gardening time! The temperatures are beginning to soar in the South, and everyone is planting (or has planted) something. My favorite Aunt Hilda loved to plant flowers, and she instilled in me such a love for the garden. My own mother was a working mom who cared very little about flowers; but my aunt and I made up for her apathy with a seasonal zeal - a Spring thermostat set at 60 degrees!

As years passed, Aunt Hilda became a little like her flower beds. When she moved home to help take care of my grandmother, I was a toddler. She lived in a Airstream travel trailer that was parked between my mother's house and my grandmother's house. I stayed at her RV as much as possible and stayed in her way when she was gardening. In the beginning, her flower gardens were immaculate, methodical and manicured. She was so persnickety about her "precious" plants that everyone called her Aunt Cranky.

Aunt Hilda was in her late-sixties when she became a part of my children's lives. By then, she was all over the place - chaotic, scattered and messy - much like her neglected flower beds. My kids, especially my oldest daughter, loved their Aunt Hilda. With her mixed bag of mannerisms, she was like a rogue cottage garden. Somewhere in the midst of all that depreciated and disarranged beauty were cherished foot paths worth finding and nuturing.

TODAY'S BIG STORY: It's planting day at Grandma's house. Aunt Hilda has the trunk of her Plymouth filled with potting soil, garden gloves and the best seedlings that the county co-op has to offer. She is a one-of-a-kind character as hybrid as a pollinated day-lily that can not be duplicated. Today, I want my small children to learn a lesson of acceptance and respect. What others view as odd, peculiar and strange, I hope my children will see as unique, original and rare.

AUNT CRANKY'S FLOWER BEDS

Half-past three.
There she stands
admiring her precious flower beds -
my Aunt Cranky.

Every morning at seven

and every afternoon at three,
she goes on duty to make sure
the neighborhood kids don't touch
one flower in her big yard.

Most days, my friends make fun of her.

She always wears a silly-looking hat
that supposedly came from a world-famous gardener.
She stands at attention in her floppy straw hat,
her dirty polka-dotted gloves,
and her oversize army green rubber boots.
She looks like an animated scarecrow!

Holding a giant garden claw,
she peeks out from beneath the shadow of her wide brim
and spies on us.

As soon as the first candy wrapper drops,
Aunt Cranky charges into battle
with her broken-handle wheelbarrow.
I try to disappear.

Aunt Cranky isn't really my aunt.
She is my mom's aunt,
and she is really old.
She doesn't like company,
cold weather or school kids.
She doesn't like stray dogs or weeds.
And she absolutely hates candy wrappers
and anything sticky!

She lives by herself

in a big white house with a pretty porch
that goes all the way across the front.
Actually...the porch would be pretty
if Aunt Cranky would take down the droopy clothesline
that hangs between two of the big white columns.

Pinned to that ugly clothesline

are six pairs of gardening gloves -
one for each day of the week, except Sunday.
Some folks in town say that Aunt Cranky
sleeps in a pair of gardening gloves.

Half past seven.

Here she comes,
picking up all the morning trash
and fussing over her flowers.

A couple of boys dare each other

to run through her rock bed.
She looks at me, and my face turns red.
I wave and walk on by.

Some days I feel sorry for Aunt Cranky,

especially today.
She looks tired and sad.
When I get home this afternoon,
I will tell Mom to check on her.

Half past three.

My friends and I walk past Aunt Cranky's house.
She is not standing at her favorite spot.
I run ahead of the others to tell Mom.

Half past seven.

I am riding to school with Mom this morning.
She is taking Aunt Cranky to the doctor.
Mom says she is very sick
and may have to stay in a hospital.

Half past three.
Aunt Cranky's flower beds are a mess.
They are covered with weeds and wrappers.
She has been in the hospital for two weeks.

Half past seven.

Today is Friday!
I have been working in Aunt Cranky's flower beds
after school every day this week.
My face is blistered from the hot sun!
My fingers are scratched from thorns!
And my feet have a hundred ant bites!

Tomorrow morning, Mom and I are going to town.

She is buying me a pair of garden gloves,
a big straw hat to hide my face,
and a pair of rubber boots to pull over shoes!

Half past three.

Another two weeks have passed.
Aunt Cranky is coming home this week!
I am ready for her to come home.

This morning, my friends threw their candy wrappers

in my favorite tulip bed.
The last time I picked up their trash,
I stepped on two tulips!
Now, I use Aunt Cranky's garden claw,
so I don't have to step in the beds.

Half past seven.

Today I am not walking with my friends.
Yesterday they made fun of me.

One of the boys knocked over the broken-handle wheelbarrow

and spilled all the compost.
Another one tossed my hat into the bird bath.
They all laughed and kept walking.

Half past three.

Aunt Cranky is coming home tomorrow!
Dad is meeting me this afternoon
to get everything ready.
He is fixing the broken-handle wheelbarrow.
He is also mounting a new clothes rack
with six rods and twelve clips
for Aunt Cranky's six pair of garden gloves.

Mom and I cleaned the front porch furniture
and washed the cushion covers.
We bought a pretty pot of red geraniums
for her wicker tea table.

Half past seven.
I am walking by Aunt Cranky's house,
and it is so beautiful.
It looks like a picture
in one of my storybooks.
Her flower beds are so clean,
except for one paper cup in the petunias.
I quickly pick it up.

Half past three.
There she stands!
My very own Aunt Cranky -
admiring her precious flower beds.

All I can say is

"It's about time!"

Dianne McLaurin, Copyright, 1995.

On January 1, 2000, my journal entry read: Today I am bringing in the new year with my Aunt Hilda (Aunt Cranky) in a hospital room. She wanted so much to see the new millennium. She was very sick, but she lived to see it. I woke her up at midnight and whispered, "Happy New Year." She smiled and said, " I made it, didn't I?" I patted her smooth, silky hand and replied, "Yes ma'am, you sure did."

She died two weeks later at the age of 81. Thanks to all those years of wearing gloves, she had the beautiful hands of a 21-year-old.

Dianne ; )

The Stuff of Trunks

I have a 'new' matching set of old trunks - small, medium and large! The timely purchase was the perfect reward for my newly-organized journals, manuscripts, articles, letters, stories, photographs, etc. I am so excited to have them! While the whole entire world is going paperless, I am buying trunks for stacks and stacks of personal papers.

 
So what is the stuff of trunks? I think the answer became clear to me as I watched the last episode of Any Human Heart on PBS Masterpiece Theater, which is based on the 2002 best-selling novel by William Boyd, a Scottish writer. The book fictionalizes the intimate and lifelong journals of Logan Gonzago Mountstuart, and the writer of the novel is so gifted that it is hard to believe that Mountstuart is a created character. The book begins with a quotation by Henry James, "Never say you know the last word about any human heart."

According to PBS description, the story explores the "detritus of a life." How can a man in the bloom of youth, pursuing writing and sex with equal vigor, end up grizzled, old, and surrounded by piles of boxes and paper, the detritus of a life? The answer is the story of Logan Mountstuart, who believes, "Every human being is a collection of selves...we never stay just one person."

...the detritus of a life. I didn't know what detritus meant, so I looked for synonyms on thesaurus.com. I found words such as fragments, debris, remains, leftovers, sediments and scraps. The thesaurus notes stated that detritus originally meant 'wearing away by rubbing' - the action, not the product; now detritus is rubble or debris and detrition is erosion by friction.

In the final scenes of the film, the aged Mountstuart, who has witnessed the deaths of so many of his friends and loved ones, is nearing his own death. Before he dies, he completes the organization of his journals and memorabilia by separating chapters of his life into piles or "collection of selves."

I think that the stuff of trunks is our collection of selves. Last night, my middle daughter and I had one of those random telephone discussions that lasts for hours. I have them on occasion with each one of my kids, but never with my husband. He and I reserve those conversations for the Saturday morning breakfast table; never on the phone. Matt and I discuss everything from the singularity to crop circles. Aimee and I discuss all things Oprah (especially our A-ha Moments), and Katie and I talk about everything from the final episode of The Bachelor to the pros and cons of Facebook.

As Katie and I talked (and talked), I listened intently to her latest observations about public relations (her major). It is one thing when your adult child calls and tells you a grade she made on a paper; however, it is something altogether different when you know that her chosen field of study is changing her life. She expressed reservations about her social network identity. As a PR major, she was questioning how a person's perceived life on Facebook actually compares to his/her real life on paper.

Wow! If there is one thing I know for sure: the stuff of trunks is not the stuff of social networks, any more than intimate journal entries can be compared to daily wall posts. My son describes most of what happens on social networks as "fronting" - a slicked-up, glossed over version of the life we carefully create. He argues that sharing all the details of your personal life is like "living on front street." The process of constant posting and uploading is what enslaves most users, not the prospect of staying in touch with five hundred friends. The imaging process is as important (if not more) than the post itself. The subject has been the fuel for many debates in our household. But, now, Katie is shifting slightly to Matt's point of view.

I do agree with Logan Mountstuart that every person is a collection of selves. Private and public selves. The stuff of trunks is that intimate private collection - separated into chapters and piles - remnants and rubble of a real life. The stuff of social media is more suited for the paperless society that it feeds. At one point in the film, Mountstuart says, "I don't like this new world that I live in. I don't know that I recognize it anymore."

That's why I am so excited about my 'new' old set of trunks and all the detritus of a life inside - a real life that is worn away by rubbing...the action, not the product. Detrition is erosion by friction. I looked up friction on thesaurus.com and found words like roughness, resistance, opposition, hassle, trouble, agitation and irritation. The stuff of trunks is a life of handwritten journals, handmade birthday cards and stacks of photos. Real life is like an old children's book with an exposed cardboard spine, a scuffed cover and dog-eared pages. You hold the book in your hands and turn pages that are worn with wear. I have always known that I am not slick or glossy. I am a life that is worn away by rubbing...just like a velveteen rabbit.

Dianne ; )