There is a special flower-pot in my garden. It hasn’t always been a flower-pot and it is a fairly recent addition to my green-fingered efforts. It’s a huge, heavy ceramic bowl that my late mother-in-law marinated dried fruit in ready for homemade Christmas puddings, Christmas cakes and mince pies. The results were always delicious and we looked forward to being given our share. There would be lots to go round. I don’t know how she managed to lift it, even when empty. When it came into our possession, I struggled to move it, wanted to keep it and there was only one practical thing to do. It would make a fabulous flower-pot, if my husband could drill drainage holes in the base of it without it breaking. Success.
I never knew my father’s sister, my Auntie Peggy. She died years before I was born, but I have stood by her grave in Southern Cemetery, Manchester and wept, a grave now shared with her parents. The tears were not for a relative I didn’t know, they were for the shattered, vandalised flower-pot that my father had discovered on his visit and lovingly piled the pieces in front of the headstone which had escaped serious damage. It was leaning back, but still in situ, unlike many others that had recently been attacked. This was in the early 1980s. Peggy had died around 1946/7 aged 21. They were not a rich family; they were ordinary people making ends meet. Dad had told me how his mother, my Nanna Hetty, saved a few pennies each week to enable her to buy a special flower-pot and have Peggy’s name inscribed on it. He was saddened by the mindless violence which destroyed so much and caused upset to the bereaved.
I’m currently looking after two special flower-pots. These are really disposable cups being recycled to nurture sunflower seeds on the kitchen window-sill until they start to grow and get strong enough to plant outside. They are the work of my two elder grandchildren, with my limited assistance, of course, though I came in handy for the cleaning up afterwards. We had such a fun time together. There was a moment of disappointment when I explained that the seeds wouldn’t start to show immediately, so no need to watch over them. Distraction tactics usually work, or failing that, chocolate buttons. ‘Nanna Time’ is the best.
I found this poem,
The Flower by Barbara Miles Jackson
All spring and summer,One thing after another.
No time for gardening,
And summer's ending. Checked the mail everyday,
That much needed letter,
Drowned out by bills,
Junk mail and books. Family out of tune,
Other plans and people.
Holding their interest,
No easy as before. Looking out my window,
At four flower pots.
Dirt dried and cracked,
For lack of water. There in a big pot,
Green leaves sprouting.
New wonder to see,
A lone flower growing. Thanks for reading, Pam x Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
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