One of the things I was so glad to see when I stayed with my mom is that the old lilac bush is still there. The neighbor on the other side of the fence has big plans for his yard, including putting up a stockade fence, and it shouldn’t touch the lilacs; at least I hope it doesn’t. Dad was the tidy yard type and used to rail against Charlie for not keeping the bush trimmed, but it was one of the joys of my childhood when the little dark purple pyramids of tightly-closed lilac buds began to grow and bloom. Despite my allergy I would bury my face in the soft lavender-colored blossoms and breathe deeply, a pleasure that came with the penance of allergy pills that knocked me out cold for hours. But it didn’t matter, and when they were in full bloom I would cut several of the big heads and set them in a glass on the porch (since they couldn’t come in the house because of the allergy) and enjoy the scent at a distance.

Reading Gladys Taber’s Stillmeadow Seasons at lunch and she brings it all back:

         Of them all, the lilac is the loveliest. There is enough beauty in a lilac for a lifetime. The shape of every tiny flower is delicate, and the whole cluster a pointed spear of exquisite loveliness. Then the leaves themselves are wonderful, polished and dark and smooth in texture. And then there is the dark, cool fragrance to enchant the senses.
         We have amethyst, and blue, and deep winy purple, and white lilacs. The double and fancy lilacs are elegant, but the ordinary country-yard lilacs are my favorite…[i]n Northern Wisconsin we used to see them growing where houses once had stood, lifting their splendor by a blackened chimney or above fallen beams. Wherever an old cabin had been a home, lilacs remembered.

I remember, too...

----------------------------------------------------------------
. . . . . noted and logged by Linda at 3:06:00 PM

Comments: Post a Comment