Many years ago I worked with
Elaine, a production manager at a trade publisher in New York, persuading her
that she really needed to buy my freelance book design and typesetting
services. Once we’d dispensed with business (it took less than five minutes and
she always gave me a sale!) we talked flowers and gardens. We would wander down
Third Avenue, discussing how challenging it was to grow delphiniums in New
England, and then explore the merits of organic fertilizer over lunch at a
Chinese restaurant we called “Ooo Flung Dung” (because we could never remember
its name) that served the most amazing sesame chicken and broccoli.
When Elaine retired in the
mid-1980s, she drove to my home on the Connecticut shoreline to deliver plants
she (1) knew I would love, (2) that would grow in my sandy garden, and (3) that
she could not take to Florida where she and her husband were going. I remember
the euphorbia Elaine gave me that I’d never heard of before and a couple of
others that I cannot now recall, but what stands out is the peony.
Elaine had brought two—one for me
and one for an elderly friend who lived several miles north of my town and that
Elaine wanted me to deliver.
No problem.
That evening after Elaine left, I
planted my peony and the next morning I stuffed the other peony into my car. I
would deliver it to Elaine’s friend after work. Except it was wickedly hot and
by the time I got back to my car at 5:00 pm, the friend’s peony was totally
fried.
Cue much panic and several bad
words.
There was only one thing to do. I
drove home like a mad woman, shed my work clothes, and grabbed a shovel. I dug
up my peony, replaced it with the dead peony, and drove my (aka, the live) peony to Elaine’s friend. She was thrilled to bits.
But to my surprise (and huge
relief) the dead peony survived. The
next year it came roaring back with plenty of shoots and leaves. However, it
has never bloomed. Had I planted it too deep? Too shallow? In the wrong place?
Much research followed. Then a teenage garden helper chopped it to ground level
(my bad for not supervising). Despite all this abuse, the peony survived, but
it still refused to bloom.
I was too embarrassed to share
this with Elaine and eventually we lost touch, but I really cared about her
peony. It was a gift, a precious memory that covered several decades, and I was
determined not to let it go. Five years ago, I relocated the peony. Again, it
produced vigorous leaves but no blossoms.
Until this year.
After all these years, I never
even knew what color it was ... until now. What a perfectly wonderful moment
this has been.
Maggie Dana is an avid gardener, and a well-known author of the Timber Ridge series of horse stories. Visit her Facebook Page.
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