Nanny's Hydrangea


Without history books or court deeds, without photographs or signatures, without heirlooms and keepsakes, without family and memories, what is left on earth to tell the story to future generations that someone existed? That someone mattered. That someone made a difference. That someone meant something to someone. That someone cared. That someone loved.
Outside our house there are beautiful dogwood trees that flower in spring, a deep red rose that arrives in the summer, a brillant Japanese maple that glows in autumn, and ancient pines that keep watch throughout the winter. There are azaleas scattered in the front beds and at the side of the house, and paths of brick that trace outlines of old gardens and walkways. In all of these things the cycle of life's seasons are apparent and perhaps understood. Nature's beauty can't tell the whole story about a person, their character, or their likes and dislikes. But these weathered trees and flowers do tell tales of their original caretakers. They whisper that at one time, someone cared, someone existed.
Last fall, my mom gave me an old dandelion puller that belonged to my grandmother. My mom told me it was my grandmother's favorite garden tool, and that my grandmother "was the devil on a dandelion." As a child I loved dandelions and watching them "magically" float off into the wind. I will never look at a dandelion now and not think of my Nanny and her dislike of them.
On Sunday, Kade and I nestled a bright pink hydrangea in between two rose bushes in honor of my late grandmother, Lucy King Jennings. This Sunday, I'll be sure all the dandelions are gone.














