Memories in the Garden

The year we moved into the big house on Arbor Lane was the year Momma got the fever. The doctor called it Hay Fever, but we didn’t know what that was. All we could tell was that Momma had to lay down with a cool towel on her face anytime she’d been out near the garden.

We had moved from our home in Cincinnati when Daddy got a job in Kentucky, working for a construction company. We were told it was a big deal, since he specialized in welding and fabrication and that industry was booming in a place called Elizabethtown. It wasn’t like a cross country relocation, but when you’re 8 years old it felt like it. Daddy laughed when we complained of the long drive, since it was only three hours to our new home, but my brother and I were unconvinced. Our parents assured us that it wouldn’t be that much different from where we came from, but we doubted it.

My brother Sam was almost ready for junior high school and he was upset that he had to find all new friends and was worried about how to restart his young baseball career. I was too heartbroken to even speak, having left my best friend Karen behind. She had a pink bedroom with a canopy bed, and it was a magical place to hang out and play. Now it was lost to me forever.

Since it was summer, there was no rush to meet with the new schools, still, Momma did her best to get us settled in. Sam joined the E’town Bombers Little League team, and found that he was not only welcomed, but was one of the best players on the team. So his course was set for a happy school year ahead.

I had no such luck. My summer consisted of following Momma around, unpacking and reestablishing life in our new home. My only joy was that I found a way into the attic, and when I could escape without notice, spent many hours there. The previous owners had neglected to remove some old boxes, and my curious nature got the best of me. Other than a few dusty blankets and some junkie old knickknacks, it didn’t look like there would be anything for a little girl to play with.

And then I found it. Hidden under a tarp in the corner was a big yellow box, the kind with a lid. Now this was promising. There were costumes and props and toy musical instruments, enough to bring many stories to life. Imagination running wild, I was determined to find a friend, and share the magic. Finally after weeks in Sunday School at our new church, Virginia became that friend. We danced and twirled our way through the warm summer days, and vowed to be lifelong bosom buddies, no matter what.

By August it was clear that something wasn’t right with Momma. Daddy thought there was something in the garden making her sick and went to the local nursery to try and figure it out. The gardener there asked him if there were marigolds or chrysanthemums in the flower bed. And sure enough, it was discovered that the marigolds produced a kind of pollen that could cause severe allergic reactions in some people. Otherwise known as hay fever. The fact that marigolds were everywhere and grew like weeds didn’t help.

Daddy plowed the garden down, removing all plants and flowers in one afternoon. That was the end of anything pretty or blooming near our house. No more hay fever, no more gardening. We settled into family life with our daily routines, building on our traditions, and creating treasured memories.

Over the next few years Momma started to fade away again, not due to any physical illness, but like her brain didn’t work as well. She would forget to make dinner, or not realize that the laundry was drying on the clothesline outside. Small things at first, but more and more I could tell that she was struggling. The doctor had diagnosed her as having early-onset dementia, and possibly stage one Alzheimer’s – which I quickly learned had no cure. By the time Sam came home from college, she had trouble remembering who he was.

I spent most of my free time taking care of the house, and getting Momma organized for the day. She liked to watch reruns of her favorite old TV shows, so we positioned her mahogany recliner in the den where she could relax and enjoy watching them. She liked tuna salad sandwiches and tangerines, as well as chocolate pudding, which became an easy routine for lunch preparation. When searching for hobbies that would keep her active, Daddy got her an easel, canvases, paint brushes and oil paints. I was shocked to see how she took to it, and even more surprised at how talented she was. Daddy was calm and patient, always encouraging, but as time wore on, I could tell he was weary and worried.

The day finally came, and he made the decision to set Momma up in a special Assisted Living facility, where she could be safe and cared for 24/7. He knew that it was only a matter of time before she wouldn’t know us at all and was concerned that both Sam and I were putting our lives on hold to care for her. Her small apartment was nice, and we brought all of her familiar things to make her comfortable, including all her art supplies. The staff was wonderful and checked in on her throughout the day and into the evenings, making sure she socialized and had her meals on time. It was comforting, knowing Momma wasn’t afraid or lonely, no longer even confused as to where she was. It was her new normal, as they say.

I was conflicted, but to be honest, I really did want to go to college. Virginia and I had applied at Western Kentucky University, as it was close to home and affordable. Both of us were accepted, with Virginia planning on being a teacher, and me aiming for a degree in Psychology.

Once that path opened up, I attended at the Elizabethtown campus and was able to continue living at home. Daddy was remodeling the house, probably to keep himself busy, and Sam had been hired as a baseball coach at the University of Kentucky. My regular visits to see Momma were like the reruns she loved so much. Same conversations, same activities. I shared all the local gossip and family updates, certain that she wouldn’t remember, but answered all of her questions no matter how repetitious.

One afternoon as I brought Momma in from our walk, the head nurse flagged me down and asked me to stop by on my way out. I felt my heart racing, assuming that it would be bad news.

“Isabel, we have noticed that your mother is very fond of painting, and we’ve been putting her artwork up in the common areas. Some of the other residents have mentioned that they would like to try painting as well, so we’ve reached out to one of our local art galleries and have received donations for canvases and supplies. At this point, we’d like to establish a weekly class, and have your mother teach the others how to paint. Of course, we need the family’s permission to do so.”

“Of course. I’ll call my dad and see what he thinks.”

So began Momma’s teaching career. It didn’t matter that they basically drew and painted the same pictures each week, of boats sailing on the water, birds perched on tree limbs, and bowls of colorful fruit. Every day was a new day, and Momma loved to walk around and see what the others were creating.

I dropped by one morning to observe one of the classes and stood at the back of the room. Momma looked up at me and smiled. “Young lady, would you like to join us?”

The awareness that she didn’t know who I was hit me hard. “Ah, no thanks, I just wanted to see all the beautiful artwork.”

When the class ended, one of the counselors came in and started putting things away, announcing it was time for morning tea. This was met with excitement, and the ‘students’ did their best to mosey out and head to the dining room for a variety of teas, served with scones and finger sandwiches.

Momma stayed behind and signaled for me to come over. “Walk with me, please?”

She took my hand and laced her arm into mine. “You remind me of someone, maybe it’s your blonde hair, I don’t know. I guess it really doesn’t matter. I live just a few doors down and have a new painting that I think you’ll like!”

Entering her apartment was like walking into a parallel universe, where familiar things held memory, but no longer existed in real life. She made it over to her easel and turned the painting toward me.

“Remember these, Bella? The marigold flowers that gave me the “fever”? They were so lovely but so toxic! I just had to paint them so I could enjoy them for once!”

I felt tears welling up, but I held her gaze, refusing to cry. “Yes Momma, I remember. I’m so happy you painted them in all their glory.”

And for that brief instant, she was Momma again. The marigolds had made an impact that transcended the moment, allowing her to connect with me once again.

That painting hangs in my kitchen now, and I tell my daughters all about their Grandma, and how she loved flowers and painting. They too, spend time in our garden, and bring their sketch pads along to draw and dream. They are my golden-haired ‘marigolds’, and my forever link to Momma.