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The Flower Kettle

Grandma's planter

By Thomas DurbinPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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Yellow-orange and rust-red leaves were falling from the majestic maples in the yard and the garden was barren except for the pumpkins and ornamental corn Grandpa had planted for Halloween. The last of the dried heads of the marigolds Grandma had planted in the old salt kettle awaited picking. The seeds were saved each year and planted the next after nature awakened from the slumber of winter. The salt kettle was a relic from a bygone industry, one of the first that European peoples engaged in when they arrived in the area that is now known as Vermilion County. Both our Native American and our European ancestors have long histories here and the evidence is recorded in the artifacts and nature around us. It would be fantastic to hear all the tales the old salt kettle would tell if it could talk as well as all the stories told around it.

As it was, the old salt kettle was now nestled in the yard at Grandma's place and it became a planter full of beautiful flowers. A fitting transition for a relic from a time when life was much harsher than it is now. How many hands had toiled over that kettle through the years? Were they the hands of healthy workers engaged in trade or desperate survivalists? Who gathered the wood and fed the fires that kept the kettle hot and the salt-spring water boiling?

Beautiful flowers in the old salt kettle. Grandma's flowers and Grandpa's garden were repositories of grace and beauty. Sustenance for the soul and for the body fertilized with love and earned with honest labor were their produce. Marigolds had sprouted a few months ago and brightened the kettle with exquisite shades of orange, yellow, red, and combinations of the three. As their season came to an end, brittle leaves and fading petals fell away. Dry stems with heads holding scores of pointed seeds remained, radiating a beauty of their own in the promise of renewed life when winter's grip on the region ceded the land and air to spring. The colors seemed to have been stolen from the marigolds by the maples and put on full display as their leaves also dried and the colors of Autumn succeeded the colors of Summer. A few opportunistic birds made a small feast of the last of the seeds. Still, most of the seeds were stored in the basement in a room adjacent to the pot-bellied coal furnace that, like the kettle, seemed to defy time when it radiated heat to thwart the chilling efforts of bitter winds each snowy winter.

Marigold and other seeds, canned tomatoes juice and green beans, and more were on the shelves. The bounty of another year celebrated by the harvest moon. Out in the garden, it was time to gather corn stalks and pumpkins for Halloween. Grandpa had Theodore and Oliver help make kindling for the winter fires in the pot-bellied coal furnace and store it in a corner of his old barn. Grandma was in her kitchen finishing the frosting of a chocolate cake for dessert. She glanced at the box wrapped in plain brown paper on the counter in the pantry as she set the cake next to it. The box wouldn't be opened until the holidays so the boys wouldn't see the surprise it concealed.

After the kindling was stored, the boys helped Grandpa gather corn stalks and tied them in bunches with the ornamental corn along the drive for Halloween. Then they ran to the garden to get pumpkins. They each chose one to carve and hollered to Grandpa for help. As kids do, they chose the biggest pumpkins and couldn't carry them to the porch by themselves. They had fun digging the "guts" out of the pumpkins and set aside the pumpkin seeds so they could cook them later. Grandma gave them markers and they each drew scary faces on the pumpkins and enlisted Grandpa to carve them. It was close to dark and they were hungry, so they left the pumpkins on the front steps with lit candles in them. Grady barked at the new inhabitants of the porch a couple of times and wandered away when they stood their ground grinning eerily at him. The cats nosed around, completing the Halloween scene as they scratched at a few of the corn shucks and lazed about on the steps by the carved pumpkins. Grandma picked the last of the seeds from the marigolds and Grandpa pulled the dry stems from the soil in the old salt kettle. The boys snuggled on the couch in the living room, looking out at their pumpkins. A cool breeze extinguished the candles as they dreamt of the colors of summer flowers leaping into the leaves of Autumn.

The End

Author's note: A little bit of the history of the local salt works can be seen at the Salt Kettle Rest Area, east of Exit 206 of I-74. The kettle there has tales of its own to tell. The tales of our relics could prove to be a mesmerizing saga. Rest your hands upon a relic, close your eyes, and let it speak to you some time.

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About the Creator

Thomas Durbin

Raised in rural east-central Illinois, I appreciate nature and the environment. I'm a father, grandfather, professional engineer-scientist, leader, scouts leader, coach, stoic, minimalist, costumer, historian, traveler, and writer.

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