Propriety: Thy Name be Mary

I was mowing the orchard this morning. The sun was warm, the air cool, birds flying about, chirping and singing. The constant hum of the engine and the steady drone of the PTO turning the mower blades is, in a fashion, lulling. I do some of my very best thinking while driving in endless circles around our little farm. One thought led to another and another. I was thinking about yesterday. About Mother's Day. About my momma. About my Grandma. Grandma passed away a few months before we bought this house and farm. I miss her. I kept thinking how I would have liked showing her my house and gardens and flowers. She would have loved it. And when she left she would have gone home to South Carolina with little cups of dirt filled with snips of this and that and the other. Little clippings and sprouts and seeds she would have put into the dirt and watched grow. I know her's would grow better than mine even though she would do nothing different than I have. She had a green thumb, could grow anything. She would take her finger and poke a hole in the soil, plop something in and it would grow. It didn't matter much what it was. It would grown. Seeds from an orange she bought at the grocery store. A pinch of something she felched from the airport. A little rooting she had put in water until she could see long dangling white hairs. Everything grew as if SHE was the sun and the water and the earth. My Grandmother taught herself everything she knew. She gave me the foundation for most of the things I have taught myself. How to sew, cook, garden, etc. She is also the reason I do many of things I do. If that makes sense. Bleach, no matter the brand name is refer to as 'clo-white'. Doing laundry is 'washing clothes' even when it isn't clothes, it could be sheets or curtains or rugs, and putting them on 'the line', the clothesline. I suppose if you ask my momma and her sisters they very much do the same things. However, my momma is the only one of her sisters who can cook like Grandma. My Aunt Sue inherited my grandmother's penchant for gaudy jewelry. My Aunt Sherry got her looks, although she is much taller than her mother. My Aunt Rachel got her sense of adventure. I think we all got our sense of propriety from Grandma. You won't find any of Mary's children looking any less than, as Preacher Bill would say, 'spit-shined'. When you leave the house you look put together. Hair 'fixed', neat clothes, good shoes. You look presentable. All of us have raised our children the same way. No miniskirts and belly-shirts around these parts! No child related to her would dare look like they came from the Gypsy Camp! I was thinking about how my Grandma's house looks, big and white sitting on a city block behind the elementary school. Hanging baskets on the front porch, rows of potted plants every where. Yards trimmed neat, sidewalk edged, leaves raked, everything tidy and in it's place, that is the way Grandma did it. She and I used to talk about having a big old house in the country, although she had a big old house in the city. We talked about flowers and bushes and the artichokes her momma grew. Me and Grandma talked about anything and everything, within propriety that is. I would call and ask how to cook something and she would tell me, never using measurements! Cooking was done by instinct. At first I was sad. My grandma won't ever see my white old house in the country. She won't see all my flowers or the hanging baskets on my front porch. She won't see how my Colby and Gracie look all 'spit shined' when we leave the house. She won't see how J. is adapting rather well to propriety standards and has begun to learn to sew. She won't see my husband dutifully help me trim bushes without stepping on the vinca. She won't promise to come to Washington D.C. and give him a 'what for' if he doesn't treat me well. Which he does, Grandma! He does! I was mowing the orchard this morning. The sun was warm, the air cool, birds flying about, chirping and singing. And I began to cry. While I was crying and missing my Grandma, the wind rose and blew all around me. The tears of sadness fell away and became tears of joy. My Grandma may never see everything I want to show her but then she doesn't have to. She is here. She is here. With me. She is in the baskets hanging on my front porch. She is in the flowers blooming around my yard. She is in the neat and tidy way I keep the front entrance. She is in the artichoke seeds we will plant. She is in the 'clo-white' when I 'wash clothes' and 'put them on the line'. She is in the spit-shined and polished look of my children when they leave the house. She is in every pot and pan that bubbles on the stove. She is here. I won't ever let her leave. When my children grow up and have homes of their own, I know she will go with them, too.