Lilacs, tradition and noise

“Aunt Katie!” Little One called as we all wandered around in the bright sunshine on Monday afternoon. I looked over at her and saw that she held a plant her grandma had carefully dug from around the larger lilac bush. “You take this home and plant it at your house?” She asked, turning to toddle over to the planter Mom indicated and placing the roots inside, then bending to place her hands on her knees and stare at it. I came over to do the same.

“Yes. I want to take the lilac home and plant it at my house. Then I’ll have a lilac too. Just like your grandma. My grandma had one too – it shaded the sandbox in her backyard and it was my favorite plant ever.”

She nodded, then gasped with horror when she saw a worm. “Hold me!” She insisted, holding up small arms and cuddling into my neck when I lifted her.

Dad placed the worm carefully in the planter, insisting it needed to move to my house as well. “It’ll meet Southern worms.” He told Little One. “Get an accent. Make some friends. Enjoy the warmer weather.”

"Acky." She pronounced and I murmured my agreement as I smoothed her light brown curls.

It was a healthy little sprout – growing off to the side of the bush that produces pale purple flowers and light green leaves. After it was tucked in some rich Illinois soil, we wandered over to the Pussy Willow that lives off to the side of the lot. My grandparents lived in a small cottage on a busy street when I was young. There was a blacktop driveway to the left of the light brick structure and three small steps led into the kitchen that overlooked a sunny backyard. In the backyard stood a garage with pale yellow siding. Beside it was a huge Pussy Willow bush. I remember going out to look at it. Standing in the alley and marveling at the soft puffs, coaxing Grandma into cutting some branches so I could take them inside and show Mom when she came to pick me up.

Years ago, Mom took a cutting from that bush by the alley and planted it at the light brick structure my parents bought when I was in second grade. I brought two sprouts from that plant home too – roots incredibly long and healthy – and dug a hole in heavy clay to tuck them in the ground next to the light brick house where I currently reside. I mixed the rich black soil from home with the dense clay I have here, patting dirt into place, introducing Midwestern worms to their new Southern friends.

There is an exquisite continuity to it – the way traditions seamlessly ease into the next generation. If I live here long enough, I can remind Little One that she helped dig the lilac that I’m hoping grows at the corner of my front walk. We can wander around the garage to see if the two Pussy Willow plants are producing soft, gray puffs of their own. And perhaps someday she’ll decide that her house requires a few plants she remembered seeing at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

I decided on my way home – a long trip that was made in the daytime today rather than through the night of yesterday – that I made Grandma happy. Much like Little One delights my mom, I was a source of fascination and pride and love for my grandmother. This pleases me – that my endless search for purpose may not need to be so difficult. I effortlessly mattered to people when I was tiny. I do the same now – to the few people I love dearly. That fact – often overlooked – is important. I don’t know that it’s enough, but it’s important.

“This is going to be loud.” I told Mom last night as we sat in the arena and waited for Blue Man Group to begin their performance. “Please don’t cover your ears with your hands, OK?”

She giggled as she nodded, and I joined her in laughter. Mom and Aunt took Grandma and Aunt’s Mother-in-Law to see a concert about 15 years ago. Both women are gone now and I miss them terribly. They saw Julio Iglesias, if memory serves. The older women wanted to attend, and Mom and Aunt sat on either side of the pair in their plastic rain bonnets that were carefully removed once they were seated.

“So the lights came on – they were bright and flashing – and the music started, all loud and pounding, and I looked over at your mom,” Aunt told me, “and your grandma had her hands clasped over her ears, a look a such distaste on her face that I started to laugh. Your mom was hysterical too, nodding at [Aunt’s Mother-in-Law], who had her hands over her eyes, peeking through while squinting at all the lights and movement. It was like ‘see no evil, hear no evil’ and we laughed until your grandma scolded us. They both said afterward it was a bit noisy. They didn’t think they liked him so much after all.”

So when I shy away from large crowds or noisy bands, when I demand respect and get a bit shrill with indignation, or when I plant the pretty lilac and hope I get to have a child so I can give her a sandbox that is shaded by such a fragrant, pretty plant, I’m reminded of the past. The wonderful women who came before me. They told stories of those who came before them and I’m profoundly grateful that I have stories of those women that I remember and love.

Mom said, by the way, that she was tempted to slap hands over her ears last night. She liked certain songs and found the Blue Men to be quite interesting. “But it was a lot of banging on stuff.” She noted. “Rather loud, I think.” Even as I laughed at her, I nodded in some agreement. I am my mother's daughter - I'm strangely pleased with that.