Mrs Olivers garden

I cherish my grandmother Flossie’s garden tools even though they are old, split and rusted. After she passed away, I found them tucked away in the basement behind the furnace in her house.  My present home.  For me, finding her tools was like striking gold.

My grandmother, whom we called Grandmo, aided me in cultivating a keener more skilled interest in gardening. As a little girl, I’d work with her planting and tending to flowers and vegetables in the gardens around her home. It was our thing. Our time together. But someone else was more instrumental in awakening me to the wonders of gardening and my continuing deepening passionate love for it.

Mrs. Oliver lived in a tiny white house, not as small as a shotgun house, next door to Nannie’s brightly painted orange house with yellow trim. Size is relative, I was small myself.

Nannie’s front porch was screened and a swing glider, painted to match the house, sat in the far corner nearest Mrs. Oliver’s house. My sister, Kristee, and I spent many hours playing on that swing, doing all things little girl: talking, laughing, imagining and singing.

When it was raining, playtime was over. Nannie said, “God is at work.” This meant sitting quietly on the porch, usually with she and her husband,Uncle Tat, until the rain stopped, doing nothing except listening.

After the rain, what I remember most is the smell of freshness filling the air; especially if the ground had been hot beforehand. Nothing on earth matches the natural aroma of steaming concrete and red clay dirt. It’s God’s perfume. I’m not sure if Kristee noticed the smell because she’d be too busy bouncing from the glider like a jack-in-the-box trying to get a peek at earth worms now blanketing the ground.

Enjoying the lingering aroma, I’d remember Mrs. Oliver next door and turn round on the swaying glider to wait patiently for her to emerge her tiny home wearing a hat and simple dress. She always came out to her flower garden after a rain. I’m sure moments earlier she’d been listening patiently like the rest of us as God did his work. Now it was time for hers.

Mrs. Oliver’s yard was a mass of reds, yellows, greens, oranges, whites and purples. Flowers of all shapes and sizes; big and small covered every nook and cranny of the yard. Some, I’m sure were bigger than me. Mrs. Oliver was old, older than bald-headed Uncle Tat. She was dark as night with a body completely covered with smooth and wrinkly skin, she moved like thick dark molasses.

I just knew Mrs. Oliver was really Miss Jane Pittman; maybe Harriet Tubman herself.

Every once in awhile, she’d notice me spying and glance at me with a smile. At first, like a scared bunny, I’d hop from the glider and boogey into the house.

This changed after time. My curiosity prevailed.  Soon I was at  her gate; eventually in her yard.

Nannie, Uncle Tat and the glider are gone. As are the story-telling, family gatherings and quiet listening to the rain on Nannie’s porch. I moved away.

Now in the long evening of my life, I’ve replaced Nannie’s glider with a bright yellow swing of my own. It sits on the front enclosed porch of my white house with yellow trimming.

My swing and gardens, are my prized possession. They remind me of the innocence of the past and those I love.

Kyanna, my 4-year old grand-daughter, and I enjoy relaxing there, especially when it’s raining. Afterwards we venture into my gardens to marvel at wonders brought about by God’s work.

But her garden and spirit lives on stimulating the senses and feeding the soul.