A Rose by Any Other Name

My mother was quite the character. She was always on the go, always trying something new. One week she'd take up painting by number and the next she'd make pottery. But the one thing that never changed was her love of plants.

Four-foot-wide flower beds ran around the entire house, where an amazing variety of flowers and herbs nestled among her prize rose bushes. Silver-painted tractor tires with zigzag tops formed the border to the driveway. As a child, I loved jumping over them, pretending to be a track star running the hurdles. Some leaps were harder than others—the mossy purple flowers were easy to scale, but I skirted around the irises—I remember her scream the first and only time I tried, when I broke off three stems. I stood there, listening to her sob as if I'd just beaten her precious chihuahua. I wondered if they felt any pain as their heads lolled on the ground, their sticky tongues giving one last lick to the moist earth.

Second only to her flower beds was her vegetable garden, which started as a compost pile. She’d till around the volunteers growing from last year's trash, adding plants here and there, until the meandering semi-circles of growth vaguely resembled a garden. Everyone else in the neighborhood had a fenced area with stakes holding tattered seed packets--but not Mom. She knew every plant from experience. She let it grow, decided if it was edible, and harvested the seeds if she liked the result. You see, she could not read.

Oh, she could sign her name. To cope in a world of words, she had her own system for remembering things. High's Convenience Store became "Hides", since it was famous for ice cream, which came from milk, which came from cows. Her hiatal hernia was a "high" hernia, presumably to distinguish it from a "low" hernia. So the Latin names for flowers were all Greek to her. They were just orchids and irises, pansies and mums.

I thought I had found the ultimate gift the year I gave her an exotic iris—I knew she couldn’t afford to buy one; most of the time she grew her flowers from cuttings and bulbs given by kind neighbors. While she never did get the greenhouse she wanted, Dad built shelves in the basement on the wall next to the slider, and a planting table with wheels. She could roll it out onto the sunny patio and play with her seedlings.

A few days before her birthday on July 4th, I found her outside the basement door, as usual, elbow-deep in dirt. I handed her the prized plant to which I'd attached a big green bow.

“Green for your green thumb, Mom. This is an extremely rare flower—Iris Pamphylica. It’s in the Reticulata family. I had to search three counties to find it. I bet it will look great in your collection.”

“Ain’t you just the sweetest daughter in the world?" She leaned over her unfortunately oversized breasts to peck my cheek. "I’ve always wanted a purple one! I’m putting it on my prize shelf for now, right beside my new plant. Come see.”

She shuffled through the open glass door and made a show of depositing my gift neatly above a tall, thick plant sitting on the floor . It looked like a sad, spindly Christmas tree in an even more morose chipped and weathered terracotta pot.

“Well? What do you think? Bet you've never seen anything like this!" The pride in her voice was unmistakable. "It was growing in the garden so nice, so I brung it in. You clip it--it bushes out, like rosemary. It actually don’t taste bad--kinda minty. I’m thinking of making a tea.” Mom smiled wide. She was so darn cute when she showed her front teeth. I hated to burst her bubble.

“Mom, please don’t do that.”

She waved me away, her belly rolls shaking as she chuckled. “Oh, honey—I ain’t got poisoned yet. I’m sure the Indians used it for something.”

“Well I don’t know about that, but I know your son uses it.”

“Mikey? That’s funny—he always turned his nose up at my concoctions. That boy screamed every time he saw the tea strainer come out the drawer….”

“Mom, would you please listen to me for once? Hello!" I waved my hands in front of her face. "Let me use the education you paid for!” That always pissed her off, but it shut her up, too. I spoke slowly, emphasizing my words. “Your son used it in high school. He sold it in high school. He almost went to jail one night for having it in his possession, and you could go to jail for having it in your house.”

Her chubby hands flew to her mouth, oblivious to the stains on them. “You don’t mean…. Naw... But it’s so pretty! Look at the flowers!”

“Yes, I do mean. Those pretty flowers turn into buds of Cannabis Sativa. Actually, knowing Mikey, it’s probably a super-stinky Indica hybrid." Hazy college memories mesmerized me for a few moments. "Anyway, you have to get rid of it before the family reunion. Willy ain't gonna like arresting his grandma.”

“Don’t be silly, dear, it isn’t a cannibal’s diva or whatever you said, it’s just a little weed in a pot.”

“Exactly, Mom. A little weed in a pot . . . will get you five to ten.”

She stood still, head high in matronly dignity, digesting all them fancy words she worked so hard to let others put in my brain. Finally, she narrowed her eyes and wagged a finger in my face. “Now you listen to me, Miss Prissy. I don’t know what you're talking about. You and your...camel indicators.” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, looking less like a matriarch and more like a stubborn little oompa loompa. "To me, it’s just a harmless weed. In a pot."

I caught her drift, all right. After I thought about it logically, it wasn't shocking at all. Her inability to read forced her to rely on her own personal experience over cultural norms. May have been part of the reason she was the fairest, most compassionate, smartest woman I've ever known.

And all that time I'd assumed the twinkle in her eye was from her "author-itis" medicine.



(Author's note: This fiction follows several true events. She actually threw the plant in the trash. And, as far as I know, stuck with ibuprofen for her arthritis. )