Betsy Lackey

I remember my grandmother’s backyard. It was small, but full of life. A large cherry tree filled the space.  Neatly along the side of the fence was a rose garden; a small vegetable garden in back. Between the houses, lilies of the valley grew in abundance. In spring their perfume would grab you.

Gardening is a family tradition. As a child I put cuttings in a window to see if a new plant would grow.  I remember how those clippings looked in the sunlight --- thin wispy roots, translucent, tiny pale leaves -- you could see right through them.

My grandmother was strong willed, intelligent, particular.

She could start roses from cuttings.  Hidden underneath the well-manicured bushes would be a canning jar or two covering a rose cutting. She would find a flower with a “numb” on the stalk, put it into water, and wait for the “numb” to sprout.  If it did, she would remove the flower, plant it and put a jar -- a mini greenhouse -- over it, coaxing a bush to grow.

I visited my grandmother in the hospital just before she died -- her wispy white hair lying against the white pillow; her pale skin translucent against the sheets. In the hospital, hanging onto life, it was as if I could see right through her. But she wouldn’t let go – until she was told she couldn’t go home.

Then my grandmother, strong willed, intelligent, particular – then my grandmother relaxed – or relented – and died.