My childhood preoccuations involved climbing to the top of a jangled bush to pretend all manner of things children pretend — that I was in an airplane about to make real my flying dreams, that I was a true queen of my little world (not wanting more dominion than my arms could stretch to), that these tangles of wood I had bound myself to belonged to me and the world at the same time.
In summer, I picked bouquets of my mother’s favorite flower and sold the iris to her for a smile. One year she let me plant a whole garden of nasturtium — a plethora of pleasure for my wide open senses. A small backyard greenhouse spawned floral abundance all year.
Mom's favorite flower, the iris, reigned over our natural paradise. The stately blooms taught me an essential (maybe the most essential) life lesson.
Back then, the biggest horticultural prize in the iris world was breeding a bloom as close to black as possible. My mother joined that race for the prize, midwifing new varieties each year. I was her understudy, circa 1957.
Mom's favorite iris producer, Schreiner’s Iris Gardens, describes the cross-pollination process we followed:
