A Bulb Fowler in the Green

When I was a little girl in Detroit, I used to stand all day in the shadows of the bushes that grew behind our house. Perhaps grandpa had planted a few shrubs along the fence way back in the seventies before I was born. Now they were all wild; wild, green and independent of us, the family who lived inside. In springtime, the rain came day after day, so that by my birthday, wild flowers hid low in the foliage, their orange and purple petals peeking out from a blanket of heavy green. I would walk beside them, keeping close so that I could hide from the sun under the shady canopy. By July the leaves and vines were so high that I could jump into them and play. I never did. I only tiptoed through the brier, searching for Hyacinths. I only ever found one. It was a beautiful, white flower. The scent of it drew me deep into the patch and I followed the trail of its’ fragrance on the breeze. It stood alone among the dark green blanket, deeply rooted. I climbed in and smiled when I drew close. It was so sweet! My young heart was delighted. I quickly picked the flower and ran inside to show my gramma.
Gramma said she didn’t plant it, it just grew.
“I don’t know sugarplum, maybe old Mrs. Rhys had them in the back of the house before I bought it. Maybe it’s just a wild thing. You ought go ask Bernice. I don’t know much about Hyacinths.”
I put my summer prize in a jar of water and ran next door with it. Our neighbors, the Lawerences (a name I never knew until I was a woman), were Bernice and Shorty. A sweet old couple who seemed to fit together like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. A pint sized pair, they lived in a house that looked like it was built for a hobbit. The front door was heavy streaked elm, and the entrance to the little home protruded out of the rest like a cute, round bubble. It looked like a house built into the hollow of a tree. It had a sharply slanted roof and shutters as dark as the leaves behind our house. For this reason I loved their little gnome cottage. It was welcoming to little people and imaginary creatures.
That day, I ran past the front door and the pink tulips. I skipped along the side of the cottage where the bed of yellow daffodils glowed in the sun. I ran carefully, with irregular footsteps to protect my treasure. The garage door was open. Shorty’s tractor lawn-mower sat in front. I called into the darkness.
“Shorty! Shorty!” The familiar smell of motor grease and pipe tobacco mixed with the sweetness of the flower as a staunch figure wafted out from the darkness.
“Nice to see you today Bear!” He said huskily, like an old, baseball coach. He wore his everyday uniform, a navy, workman’s suit with silver snaps up the front.
“Shorty look what I found! Look what I found in the green!” I chirped, holding the jar high above my head. Shorty removed the pipe from his lips and bent to examine my treasure.
“Hmm, a Hyacinth, sure enough.”
“It smells sooo good, better than perfume!” I held the jar under his nose.
“What’cha gone do with it Bear, give it to your old pal Shorty?” I squealed and we both laughed. His was the deep chuckle of an old man.
“No, it’s for my gramma.”
“Well I think that’s a great idea, but you’d better go show Bernice first. She’s in the house.”
“Okay, bye Shorty!”
“Bye Bear.” He put his pipe back in place and went back into the garage.
Bernice was standing in the kitchen fixing ham and cheese sandwiches. The Lawernces’ house was cute, and it smelled of old things that were still sweet. Bernice had exactly the same smell. She praised the beauty of my flower and gave me half of a sandwich.
“Bernice,” I asked between mouthfuls of wheat-bread, “Why don’t you have any Hyacinths? You have every other flower.” She laughed graciously.
“Not every flower Bear.”
“You’ve got a lot.” I finished my sandwich. “Can you plant some of these for next year?”
“Well, I don’t think they are compatible with the others,” I frowned like a pug. “But we’ll see. Come, let’s look at the flowers.”
We strolled out into the hot sun. Bernice wore a wide-rimmed, beige hat. She walked slowly, gently. I walked beside her with my jar. She explained what all the different flowers were around the house and why some can’t be planted beside others. By the time we had encircled the cottage and arrived at the vegetable-garden in the back, I was worn out from listening. I sat down on the grass.
Bernice placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the flourishing garden.
“Ugh!” she picked up a yellow vegetable and scowled in disgust. “These darned jackrabbits! They keep eating my turnips!”
“Rabbits?” I echoed, jumping to my feet.
“Yes, they’re horrible. I don’t know how to get rid of them without harming my plants.” I looked at my beloved Hyacinth and felt sympathy for her.
“Come Bear, I want to give you some tomatoes for Carlie.”
We bent down in the bushes, searching for the perfect summer tomatoes. It was mainly me crawling quickly under the plants, digging the deep, red tomatoes off the garden floor as Bernice directed my little hands. After half an hour I met my grandmother in our living room with six beautiful tomatoes and five delicious, homemade sugar-cookies.
“My, my, you made out like a bandit!” She exclaimed taking the jar and the tomatoes.
My grandmother sliced the summer tomatoes and ate them with salt. I ate my cookies, which were big, fluffy sugar cookies that weren't too sweet.
Throughout the following week I gazed at my flower in adoration. When the smooth, white petals began to brown and wilt, I again traversed the cool shadows of the green behind the house. I desperately searched for another Hyacinth or the sign of a baby bulb on the way, but there was nothing; only yellow Daisies and orange Lilies. I had picked the last Hyacinth. After it died I felt like a fool. None ever grew again.

Copyright 2004 by Starryeyeslie