Spring has sprung, and not a moment too soon, considering the snowy winter we’ve endured.
The welcoming sight of fresh flowers peeking through the hard ground is bound to have a sobering effect, especially with a robin bobbing around and chirping a mate’s call.
Is there any better season to rehabilitate the spirit? I think not.
In an effort to get into the proper mood, a visit to the Boston Flower and Garden Show was in order. We chose a senior tour as our option, rather than negotiate the heavy traffic and pay the freight for gas and parking.
Because space was limited, I chose a seat by this well-mannered gent who happened to be a born-and-bred horticulturalist. One mention of flowers and a dissertation followed.
As for the show itself, it was ablaze with color, most certainly a photograph’s delight, which is more my passion. Give me a good flower arrangement and step aside. I turn into a maniac with my camera.
The other morning, I got the surprise of my life. My wife rushed me to the kitchen window and pointed to a wine barrel that only a week ago was covered with snow.
“Look,” she exclaimed. “The flowers you planted last fall are reappearing.”
They were weeds I pulled from that bucket, not flowers. They must be growing on their own. Could be that some bird dropped seeds from the feeder into the soil and they produced.
I am no horticultural expert by any stretch but I love flowers. I enjoy the peace and tranquility they have to offer. The color and magnitude. Life growing in its fertile stages.
I’m one of the first in line at my garden center in pursuit of a hanging plant. Because I live in a condo development with strict exterior rules, I cannot plant my own garden outside. So I’ve settled for optional sources like bought plants and wine buckets.
And admiring the gardens that cross my path in a given day. Often, I’ll pause and reflect—stop and smell the roses so to speak.
One of my favorite moments at the paper was getting to write about the Garden of the Month in my city. I’d get a call from the Haverhill Garden Club with a choice and off I’d go to do a story. People love talking about their gardens, like they do their grandchildren, sharing views and pointers.
Prior to the move, I enjoyed a nice yard with plenty of good soil in which to plant. It brought me boundless joy to see the products of my labor. My wife and I shared a pact. She would handle everything inside the home and I’d take care of the outside.
That didn’t mean we isolated ourselves and didn’t infiltrate each other’s territory. She knew the pleasure I derived from planting flowers each spring and appointed me caretaker of the finery.
The rabbits would come and feast. So did the neighbor’s dog. He, too, had his business, disturbing as it was. Flowers can sometimes attract the beast in us.
A floriculturist once told me, “Every flower I grow is more beautiful than it looks and more fragrant than it smells.”
All I have to do is look into the petals of a pansy and see what looks like a smiling face to understand its beauty. Or marvel at the significance of daffodils and how quickly they bloom when introduced to water—the mission they accomplish each year in the fight against breast cancer.
Tulips and lilies denote the arrival of spring.
When it came to roses, nobody could touch the late Dick Jaffarian, an auto dealer in my city, who grew a dozen different varieties in his yard.
He claimed his flower garden was the logical panacea in fighting boredom and giving old age the boot. His fresh arrangements made the perfect gift. It was like giving a piece of himself to others, considering the time and work spent in his garden every day.
If you’re ever in the mood for a perfect day trip, try the Route 1 shoreline along Hampton and Rye, N.H. There you will encounter a floral paradise called Fuller’s Gardens where the accent is on beauty. It’s a wonderful attraction for both expert gardener and amateur alike.
There were no flowers at my dad’s funeral per his request. He felt it was a waste of money that could be put to better use.
So he insisted that in lieu of flowers, memorial contributions be made to the charity of the donor’s choice.
While I respected his sentiments, bury me in a floral bed when the time comes.
Tom Vartabedian
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Our fathers were tough. I wonder if mine ever knew yours. My father used to grow flowering plants in the house, but after my mother’s death at the young age of 73, Dad never wanted to see another flower in the house. (Who was the author that wrote of the stifling fragrance of a house filled with the flowers of death?) Dad didn’t stop planting his tomatoes and green beans outdoors for another 20 years. Remembering Peter Bilezikian every day, but especially today, as tomorrow, it will be a year since he has left us.