THE 39TH MARIGOLD

I arched my sore back, stood back and surveyed my work.  Ten little marigolds, all in a row, just like ten little Indians.  Nice, I thought.  But then I looked at the plants in flats behind me. Only fifty more to go.

Fifty more!  What was I thinking.  Really.  Sixty marigolds!

Well, I’ll tell you what I was thinking when I started this project.  How pretty they were going to look around midsummer when they filled out; a long golden ribbon of marigolds lining the path to my front door.

I’d done this before. But this year, I was late with my gardening.

After a late March knockout bout with the flu, my back seemed stiffer, my knees creakier and my flower planting spirits, saggier.

But now, surveying my handiwork as sweat dripped down my neck, I had run out of excuses.

I knelt down in the dirt and placed ten more little plants in a row. The late morning sun beat down on my head and the hum of insects told me summer was here.  Get a move on, the bees buzzed.

At least the soil was nice and loose, thanks to husband turning it over earlier. I didn’t have to struggle with hard soil and pieces of shale.  The marigolds slipped easily into their new homes.   Nineteen, twenty.

I stood up and rubbed the small of my back.  They were looking pretty good, I thought. Nice and straight – for eyeballing it.  Only forty more.

Maybe I should take a break and have a nice cold lemonade.  Tempting, but no.

I took out another ten, placed them in the row and resumed planting.

A black shadow suddenly loomed over my twenty-first marigold.

“Make sure you get them in right – you know – in a straight row.  Want me to measure them for you?”

I looked up, wiping the sweat out of my eyes to see husband giving my work a critical once over.  He wasn’t kidding.

Pushing up my hat brim, I gave him the old stink eyed stare and resumed my planting.

He turned with an “I was just trying to help” posture and slumped back into the garage.

“Give me strength,” I muttered, pulling another ten flowers from the flat.

I surveyed my line and it was still looking pretty straight – to me anyway.  The next ten went in, no problem!

Twenty-nine, thirty!  Halfway.

As the summer sun relaxed my stiff flu-stricken bones, I laid out the next ten.

But somewhere around the thirty-ninth marigold, I forgot about my husband’s measuring, cold lemonade and stiff bones.

And, I recalled a summer day like this one, when I was a little girl, many years ago.

“What’re these, Mom,” I asked, looking at the colorful succulent flowers on our back-porch table.

“Portulaca’s, from Mrs. Lieber.  She brought them over this morning.  Come on, you can help me plant them.”

“Like this, Jannie,” she patiently explained as we dug holes in our small garden. “Not too deep, but they need a little room to travel.”

Travel?  How, I wondered. They’re stuck in the dirt.

I found out a few weeks later, as they ‘traveled’ and covered Mom’s flower bed in a riotous profusion of color,

My Mother always loved flowers and she taught me to love them too.  She taught me about traveling Portulacas, ever blooming perennials and lush, compact marigolds. From her, I learned when to plant and when not to plant. I learned that planting was an activity that could bring one solace, induce meditation, or increase one’s patience. And that done properly, planting could produce marvelous results.

Fifty-nine, sixty. The last marigold. I had reminisced myself to the finish line.

I looked down the long golden line and smiled.

Thanks for the help, Mom!