When I was a child, we were allowed to stay with our grandparents for a week in the summer. In reality, this was so our parents could go on vacation without us children, but we didn't know that, and we looked forward to it as much as our parents did! I don't know if my grandparents looked forward to it, or just accepted it, but it was the highlight of our summer.
My paternal grandfather was a farmer. Watermelons, mostly. The secret to watermelon farming is to get them sold by the 4th of July weekend. After that, the public's appeal for watermelon quickly subsides.
My paternal grandmother was a hard working woman. Mostly in the kitchen. We would play outside, but we could always look at the kitchen window and see Grandma standing there at the kitchen sink. No dishwashers back then, except the human kind. Dinner always took hours to prepare. Freshly caught, plucked, and fried chicken was a staple. Fresh tomatoes, fresh corn, beans, peas, or whatever was picked from the garden, was lovingly prepared. Watermelon, of course. Hot chocolate milk, the old fashioned kind with sugar and cocoa stirred in and heated on the stove, was a bedtime treat.
I don't remember my grandmother having a garden of flowers. In fact, the only flowers I remember her having were two giant hydrangeas flanking the porch steps. The large blue mopheads captivated my imagination. I was amazed at the size of the blooms, and of their beautiful sky blue color. At night we would sit outside and gaze at the sky. We would locate the north star, big dipper, determine the phase of the moon, and sometimes see a falling star. It was magical.
And the hydrangeas were witness to all our conversations. I could make out their shape in the moonlight. It was mesmerizing.
I grow hydrangeas as a remembrance of my grandmother. And, too, of my childhood. Of that wonderment and amazement I remember every time I see their blooms.
I heart hydrangeas.
I think they heart me back!
I'm linking up with Tracie at Fishtail Cottage for Cottage Flora Thursdays.