My grandmother was one of the most kind hearted and simple souls to ever work the earth. She lived her married life in a very small house with a very big yard that was once part of my grandfather’s family farm. She raised six kids , all of whom adored her, in the most modest fashion. They had what they needed and nothing more, and were all the happier for it.

Her gardens , just like her, were lovely,simple and just perfect. She grew Siberian iris, daylilies, and a handful of other common perennials. She had a hedge of snowball viburnum, and an old apple tree with a bench under it. In the front of the house was an old fashioned rambling rose that bloomed it’s head off for a few weeks a year and could stop traffic. It was a gift from her mother, and became her signature plant. Cuttings from it live here, at my sister’s house, and my aunt’s in CT.

As she grew older and less able to take care of her yard, I became her gardener. It was a blessing I  will treasure always. No matter what I planted, she not only loved it, but would call with daily updates to tell me what was blooming. Each tulip that opened, every daylily that began it’s bloom, every blossom gobbled by the nefarious gophers, would elicit an excited phone call always peppered with plenty of praise for my efforts.

For several years I planted some annuals in containers outside her front door. It would take her several trips with paper cups from the sink to water them sufficiently through the summer, but she did so religiously.They bloomed and bloomed, and as her house was on a busy street , she would field complements on them on her daily outings from passers-by.She would constantly remind me throughout the winter, that she wanted those same exact plants next year, and make sure I still remembered what they were and insisted she had the money already set aside for them.

Last week as she lay in her bed at the nursing home( where she has been for the last  5 years) , on morphine for a fractured vertabrae and suffering from congestive heartfailure, she whispered the reminder to me again.

“Remember the yellow daisies, the ones that bloomed right up until frost, those are the ones I want again this year. Don’t forget, you need to plant them by the front door for me again, Everyone loved those, ” she said.

I promised, through tears, that I did remember, and I would make sure, leaving left unsaid that the house has long been sold and I have not planted daisies there in quite a while.

So much of what I love in the garden comes from her . The old fashioned plants, the cottage feel, gardening around the many play spaces purposely left for the children, all have roots in her yard.

Her siberian iris live here, her lily of the valley, daylilys , and of course, her rose. Even though she left me ,left all of us , this weekend, so much of her is here. Here where she is able to walk around, surveying and taking lots of pictures of my first gardening efforts. Here where she was always quick to help me diagnose plant problems and solve them easily. Here where she could over see the placement of the many plants she bought me. Here with me grumbling along about the rabbits and the gophers and the beetles and a sympathetic soul in my battles.

She was so proud of me  when I became a Master Gardener and speaker, and she made sure everyone knew of my accomplishments. I and was never more proud than to be able to count her as my greatest fan.