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Falling Apples

Falling Apples

I love stormy days. I grew up on the coast of Texas and loved the smell and sound of thunderstorms. So, instead of working, I’m looking at my topiary project that I’ve nearly killed. Perhaps topiary is a good thing for me because I have an excuse to give it a new shape or form. It’s my “experiment.”

Topiary? My realm is outside, not inside. In fact, I am a serial houseplant murderer. In efforts to rehabilitate myself, I do not purchase plants that should live indoors—even my Epipremnum aureum, Pothos Ivy, is a terminal case, only survives because of its weekly injections of care from my housekeeper. But last month, my garden club featured New York landscape designer Natasha Hopkinson who shared the history of the use of topiary in the garden, and then gave a demonstration on creating topiary. Of course, I had to try it myself. It’s only been three weeks, but I can already see that topiary is just not my thing.

But what I’m thinking about today is really the garden club. Yes, my mother is in a garden club, and not just any club, a “Garden Club of America” club. She helped get me invited to be in a GCA club, too. Oh yes, I’m from the South. Yes, I, like my mother was in the Junior League (don’t even ask if you don’t know). It’s a right of passage.

My siblings and I were my mother’s own personal yard slaves. When the pool was closed in the summer (Mondays), we weeded and swept and raked and mowed until our hands bled and knees ached. We had to learn how to keep and eye out for copperhead snakes (and how to kill them quickly) while we worked. We know proper mowing techniques, how to edge a flower bed with a flat spade, and how to clean mildew from brick patios. I swore as a child I would not ever have a garden or a yard, nor would I make my own little cherubs do any of my work. But I do. I love it. I make my children help as much as possible, even if it’s just to bring me a glass of water while I toil outside.

I also swore I would never join a garden club. It’s for housewives ... older housewives, who clearly have way too much time on their hands ... who have a to do list that includes lunch, coffee, prune roses, buy new screwdriver, select paint color for the basement, take divided hostas to neighbor ...

Wait—that’s MY list! I’ve turned into my mother. Not a bad thing in my book. So I’m embracing it. As I look back on it, it has been a long process and I’ve noticed little things along the way, like the tendency to dead-head pansies with my thumb, giving a permanent indentation in the nail that no manicure will ever hide. Like volunteering to chair a school fundraising event. Like offering to test a recipe for my garden club cookbook.

The proverbial apple has fallen not far from my mother’s tree. I’m just glad she’s still here to give me some shade.

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