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Marigolds for Granny – Liz’s rave

June 6th, 2011 | 2 Comments

I’d been “testing” marigolds for a month or so, looking for that scent that reminded me of my grandmother. By testing, I mean rubbing on the flower with my fingers, much like you would to smell mint or basil or whatever. Because marigolds have a distinctive smell that I remember from my childhood.

And marigolds are one of the many things that remind me of my late grandmother, Ibbie (Stewart) McAllister.

Granny was the quintessential grandmother, in my opinion. She’d let me camp out in the pop-up tent, even though she knew I had no intention of staying out there all night. She’d let me use Clorox and clean her bathroom all day long if I wanted to. She’d pop us popcorn, toss in a stick of butter and call it buttered popcorn . She sliced bananas, covered them in Hershey syrup and stuck them in the freezer in melamine bowls for a fancier snack. And I ask you. What other granny would actually let you have Jell-O slurping contests at the dinner table?!? Granny did. And she never complained.

Oh, sure, she may drop the s-word on occasion (and it was usually under her breath). But that was always directed at something other than the grandkids. Susan and Leigh Anne and I remember Granny best – my brothers were still quite young when our grandparents died. And my cousins and I can still talk for hours about she and Granddaddy and all the antics on Springdale Avenue.

Granny even had a jealous streak. Granddaddy had a ceramic studio in the basement and several times a week, little old ladies (OK, so they weren’t all that old…) would come to claim a masterpiece straight from Granddaddy’s kiln. Never in my life have I seen such flirts as those women. Sometimes, Granny would go downstairs to keep an eye on them. Other times, she’d stay upstairs and tell us all kinds of stories.

We were also allowed to make the flab on her upper arms giggle. It is my firm belief that God and Granny have discussed this at great length, deciding that turn-about is fair play where my own upper arms are concerned.

Granny and Granddaddy were also gardeners. I don’t really remember what all they grew, but I remember being in the garden with them. I can even remember wondering why they just didn’t go to the store for some of that stuff, because it sure looked like a lot of hard work. Now, I know why. Granny grew flowers, too – the marigolds and petunias are the only ones I remember. And as far as I’m concerned, petunias don’t really have a smell, although Granny certainly taught me how to enjoy the art of dead-heading them:-)

Which is what I happened to be showing Colton how to do in the gardening department yesterday (clearly an employee had been negligent). As we walked past the marigolds, I tested them again.

“What’s wrong with the marigolds, Colton? Why don’t they smell like they used to?”

“Is this the smell you’re talking about, Mom?”

He’d found it. Nailed it on the head.

“YES!”

So we bought seven of them – because I like odd numbers, and because I wasn’t about to short-change my grandmother in my own garden. After we got home, I headed outside to plant the flowers. As I pulled the last plant from its plastic container, the scent of that marigold was so strong that it brought tears to my eyes. I felt like Granny was right there with me, and we were planting marigolds together. And I realized Granny is never too far away after all.

-Liz