The Heirloom and the Volunteer

Years ago, before my daughter was born, sketched out a short story called "The Heirloom." Basically, this was a story about a small child breaking something that had been passed down in a family for generations -- an object full of stories, full of history. I left the exact item vague, fluctuating in my mind between a fruit compote pedestal bowl and an Aladdin mantle oil lamp. In the story, a father is cleaning up the shards of this cherished item and recounting the stories that each generation told in which this item was right in the middle of the kitchen table, eavesdropping on family history; presumably the oral history will go in the garbage can along with the broken glass that used to be the catalyst for the telling of those stories. The father also recounts some stories about the child --events that occurred under the all-seeing eye this heirloom had become. In the end we see that the father has the shards laid out in the middle of the kitchen table like puzzle pieces, has purchased several tubes of the glue of the type used to hold a rear view mirror to a windshield, has started to reassemble the heirloom, and has stuck his dominant index and middle fingers together. Any hard copies of this story have been lost to history, but from time to time I sit down and (re)create parts of it. The finishing of that story may be an heirloom I pass on to Chloe, who would no doubt draw it as a chibi or super-deformed manga.

Of course gardeners use the word heirloom to refer to the old varieties that have built up natural defenses to pests and diseases. The exact meaning of what constitutes an "Heirloom Variety" is imprecise, but it is generally agreed that the cultivar must date back to (at least) WWII era or before and it must not be a hybrid. In fact, the seed from many hybrids will give you something different from it's parent. It might give you something more like one of it's grandparents.

Sometimes, something will grow in the garden that the gardener did not plant -- at least not that year. When last year's flowers went to seed, or last year's squirrel-bit tomatoes fell on the ground, something may have planted itself. Gardeners call that kind of plant a volunteer.

I had a volunteer in my garden this year. A marigold:

I had moved a planting bed from one part of my yard to another last year, and these came up where the old bed had been.

I have been suffering perhaps a bit of Seasonal Affective Disorder lately (read as: SUMMER SUCKS) -- it comes in long waves the will cycle down by the next equinox, or Ice Age. So, I have been down in the dumper, way down. I think I hide it well. On Tuesday afternoon, I got home from another shitty day at work and went around back to straighten the trashcans that the very well-paid garbage collectors cannot ever seem to leave upright after going through the motions of emptying them (some neighborhood dogwalker's plastic bag of shit is always left behind). On my walk from one dread job to another, I spotted these beauties -- these volunteers. For those who do not garden, marigolds are good to plant among the vegetables in your garden not only because they add beauty, but because they naturally repel pests and are hardy. Nothing touches them, or anything around them. These darlings just popped up all on their own -- the very picture of tenacity, of triumph over adversity. I am already down in the dumper and work sucks, and my trash men suck -- but these little troopers are truly inspiring. I didn't have to survive weed killer and vicious lawn mower attacks just to be. I have it easy, and these marigolds are my heroes, my role models: grow up, get on with living, make yourself visible, and BLOOM

Today was a recovery day for us from Tracey's birthday. We kept her birthday low-key, as she wanted, but I was still exhausted. Tracey was out watering the garden, being mindful of our little rogue marigolds in the back. Chloe was on the couch, drawing her latest manga. I was on the web looking at touristy ideas for a trip to Wisconsin I am hoping we can take later this month...but mainly I was cooling down from a long and brutal cardio workout. Seemingly inspired by the thick fog of my sweat that was uncomfortably humidifying the house, the young mangaka girl on the couch feels like playing outside, getting some exercise.

Yes, Chloe, of course you can go outside and get some exercise.

Mama had a baby and it's head popped off.

Chloe's entire two minutes of exercise consisted of plucking the heads off of the volunteer marigolds, bringing them inside, and putting these flower heads in a jelly jar full of water in the middle of the kitchen table "to keep them alive." I gently explained to her that picking a flower is absolutely killing it, but that putting them in water will slow that dying process and keep them beautiful for a little while longer.

"I didn't know what they were, so I picked them," she said, smiling. Then she happily trotted back into the living room and resumed he position on the couch, drawing and writing the story in her head -- abandoning her new centerpiece as quickly as she created it.

I will not be in the backyard trying to glue the marigolds back together.