Heaven in a Wild Flower

When I was in high school, I composed the following for a class assignment. I had recently bought a small notebook at the dollar store, and I was inspired by its cover.

“1887”
by Joy Curry

Last season’s leaves crunched under my feet as I followed the old path. The spring sunlight, filtered by the trees, fell lazily on the fresh green grass. I was searching for the abandoned house that I had caught a glimpse of a couple of weeks earlier. My anticipation mounted with each step, waiting for it to peek from behind a grove of birches. Suddenly, it came into view. It was an idyllic spot; the house was nestled like an Easter egg between a long-neglected garden and some budding maples. Massive clumps of paper-white narcissus, daffodils, and fragrant hyacinths were strewn haphazardly throughout the yard, proving that gardens do not have to be manicured to be beautiful. I turned my eyes to the broken-down dwelling. The front porch, previously painted a creamy white, had slumped to one side while a decrepit swing hung precariously from a rafter. Cautiously, I circled the house and took a look at the backyard. An encrusted fountain met my eyes. A lifelike statue of a lady, her pitcher tilted, waited patiently for water to stream through it again. A hoe was leaning by the back door, almost as if someone had just gone inside from working in the garden. My heart beat faster when I placed my hand on the cool door handle. The door was swollen from years of stress, but finally gave way with a loud noise. I looked inside. A kitchen, dusty and forgotten, revealed itself in the doorway’s light. A basin sink, a cast-iron, wood burning stove with feet askew, and something like a pie cupboard were jumbled together in a state of disrepair. Greenish, cracked windows sifted the light they wanted, and left the rest outside. The house looked dark and foreboding. There was a doorframe to my left, and I glimpsed a flight of stairs, which were decorated with fine finials and carvings. I gingerly stepped across the hardwood floor to investigate. The planks groaned beneath my tread. I grasped the newel post and squinted into a sitting room of some sort. Sagging sofas, heavy velvet draperies, two enormous wing chairs, and a threadbare rug sparked my imagination. This house might have been a country retreat, perhaps a vacation spot, for a wealthy family of the Gilded Age. I stared at the dark stairs above me. Apprehensively, I mounted the first. “What will I find?” I thought excitedly. I took a deep breath. I reached the landing and sighed with relief. A relatively long hall stretched to my right, and a single room was on my left. I turned into the lone room. A huge wooden clothes-press and a musty, ivory colored lace coverlet graced the double bed. Crackling rose-patterned wallpaper, masked in dust, was expertly covering the four walls. A Windsor chair, already an antique in the 1800s, caught my eye. I ran my hand along the spindly back. I went over to the wardrobe and tugged gently on the smooth knobs. The doors gave way with a tiny squeak of protest. Two porcelain dolls, their shiny cheeks still pink, gazed blankly at the wall behind me, their dainty dresses diaphanously fragile. On the second shelf, a quilt, finely sewn in an intricate diamond pattern, was folded neatly. The third shelf held a single burgundy book, bound in gold, with a wide ribbon stuck in the middle of it. My eyes widened. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I reached out and gently picked it up. Too impatient to look in it after I finished exploring the rest of the house, I went down the creaking stairs, through the dusty kitchen, and into the sunlight-bathed garden below. I seated myself beneath the ivy swathed fountain and excitedly opened it where the ribbon was placed. “A diary!” I breathed out loud. Its fine script read:

“Sunday, February 27, 1887.

Dear Diary, I have, in great happiness, acquired Peter Henderson & Company’s latest ‘Everything For The Garden’ publication. Father and Mother graciously gifted it to me after their most recent trip to New York City. This spring, I shall be planting white narcissus, yellow daffodils, and china blue hyacinths…”

For my birthday in March, my mom picked me the most beautiful little bouquet. The flowers themselves were precious to me, but more importantly, they were gathered and assembled with my mom’s creativity and love. I called it the Little Women of bouquets. Naturally, it was perfect.

I love old fashioned flowers. They have a charm and a depth to them that the grandest arrangements cannot equal. Flowers growing wild are independent little things, thriving where they choose, untouched by cultivation and restraint. They are jewels when one discovers them. Bulbs have history; they are floral postcards from the past. Often one will see them growing in empty lots, reminding us that a house used to stand there. The bulbs in my bouquet (April tears, grape hyacinths, daffodils) were planted by my mom and me several years ago. Every spring, they are a nice reminder of the day that we planted them.

The design I created, just like my birthday bouquet, has purple violets, April tears, grape hyacinths, scrambled eggs, daffodils, and feathery asparagus fronds. A detail is pictured below; visit the Designs page for the full image.