Below you will find the letter I sent to my grandson after receiving from him a bouquet of iris on Mother's Day. It seems very private but then it occurred to me that it is also very American, about generations and love and really, what our soldiers are doing over there or -- if that doesn't describe the way they're thinking about it now -- then it may be about what they thought they would be doing over there. He is serving in the tradition of his father, his grandfather, his Great Uncle Bob, and Jim, and another Great Uncle he has never met, Doug. Veterans all.
Dear Travis:
How I loved the flowers on mother's day, though the sand you mentioned from Iraq's deserts--unblooming ones I must presume--would have been adequate. It's the thought.
As it turns out, the flowers were iris. So, if it's the thought that counts, they made me think.
Your great, great grandmother Ruth Howard (the one who is a main character in This is the Place) raised iris. Raising iris is different from planting iris or just having some in your yard. She had a patch of them just beyond the side yard where that huge Mormon family sat in Adirondack chairs. There were some 40s /50s style metal lawn chairs there, too, a tad rusted. And the clothesline. I think it was made so the ropes could be taken down during family parties but those ropes were supported by poles where wasps liked to build their nests. They were cozy homes for the wasps, hollow with nice little holes for them to ease into and out of. Good hiding places. One never saw the actual nests, only the comings and goings. Once I leaned against one of their entrances (or perhaps exits). Someone didn't like it much and he (or she) stung me in the armpit. That's the first time I noticed the holes were there. Before that they had just been good places to hang from your knees.
Anyway, beyond that yard, all nice and green and shaded by an apple tree that put out the bitterest, hardest, greenest apples of all time, was the iris patch. Beyond that the chicken coop. Chicken manure made very good fertilizer for the iris so it was nice and convenient. Grandmother putzed in that patch. She crossed iris with iris to see what she would get. A little pollen from this applied with her finger to the female organs of that. She also tried for size, I think, because her iris were huge, as big as the biggest California-grown grapefruit. And the colors. Some had mismatched petals, the top ones that curved up different from the ones that made a skirt. Some glittered in sun like mica. And not just the color of Van Gogh's irises. Oh, no. Much too plain. These came in pink and gold-orange, the color of sunsets. Blues and lavenders, the colors of Utah skies in summer.
Grandma liked to give tubers (for they are tubers, really, and not bulbs) to people who came to visit for she kept them nicely divided so they didn't lose any of their energy and life. By dividing them her iris she kept them forever young. It worked that way for Grandma, too. Because she was always busy and interested in something she remained feisty and fun until she died in her 90s. The olds woman in Hollday, Utah at the time.
Getting a tuber from Grandma was a treat. It was always a surprise the following spring to see what color would come of those roots that looked like giant rat turds. Grandma produced miracles with her iris.
You did, too. (-:
Love,
Grandma Carolyn
PS: You can see that iris have been influential in my life. The cover of one of my book's of poetry (co-authored by Magdalena Ball) is covered with iris, courtesy of an artist friend, Vicki Thomas.
This past Veteran's Day on another blog, a fellow veteran asked for comments about what the day means to each of us. I posted a reply and I thought I would share it with you:
ReplyDeleteHello fellas,
I’d like to give you a salute and thank you all for your service. Each Veteran’s day I take a few moments and think about just how many have served our country and what they’ve accomplished…We still have our freedoms and our liberty as do the people of Europe, Japan, South Korea, The Philippines, many countries in Asia, and even in the Middle East, freedom is on the rise. The entire continent of South America has sat secure from opportunism for over a century now – because our veterans have stood their vigil and because you and many like you have served the cause of democracy.
My thoughts are with the men and women who have stood on the decks of mighty and not so mighty ships and faced the thunderous onslaught of foreign forces, or who have slipped hundreds of feet beneath the seas in nothing more than a steel tube to do us service – knowing that any mistake or malfunction would bring them a cold watery death. Some have waded through swamps filled with leeches and poisonous snakes to combat an unseen enemy, stormed fortified beaches in the face of withering fire, or drove fearlessly down a desert road knowing there might be death waiting from hidden bombs. A proud few have jumped from the clouds to face an enemy that made target practice of them while they helplessly descended to the ground, supported by nothing more than the feathery weight of a piece of silk. Others have flown thru fearsome barrages that rent the sky – to ensure that justice is delivered to our enemies and many have faced the ravages of nature to rescue a forlorn soul…and almost a million of them have given us the ultimate sacrifice. Many more have been maimed and crippled.
Over two hundred years of service and only a handful have acted disgracefully in action. That speaks well for the nation and culture that nurtured them, and the mothers and fathers that raised them.
There are some in our country today who speak scornfully of you and never give thought to what you have sacrificed or accomplished. Even as I am writing, there are professors giving extra credit to their students for burning our flag or a copy of the constitution you have defended. We have politicians who call you by names I can’t repeat and journalists who stand with our enemies just to film our soldiers being killed. Very few of these people have served our country in your capacity, but they readily accept the privileges and freedoms you have provided for them. They call themselves citizens of the world, but cower under the protections of our legal system and while proclaiming to be champions of justice, never venture into dangerous waters or step onto unfriendly shores.
It is you, my brethren, who represent the best of America and I thank you for your service.
B.W. Philpot