If Irises Could Talk
Imagine the Stories of My Family’s Irises
My family passes down irises from generation to generation.
Deep purple with a whisper of violet and a golden backbone. Their genealogy can be traced to my great-grandmother’s garden, I think. They have been fed by more than 100 years of soil and rain. For more than 100 winters they have slept in silence. They have survived the frost of more than 100 springs, their faces always pointed to sun. They have kissed bees and flirted with ladybugs for generations. Pistils and stamen waving in the breeze as if to greet the Queen of England. Bursting through snow without apology, hesitation, or fear. Every inch a lady.
What stories could they tell?
Could they tell the story of my great-grandparent’s first date in a small boat during the 37 flood? Of my grandfathers’ return from The War? Of my brother Brian’s death? Of Derby morning in 1972 when my great-grandfather died? Of hasenpfeffer and visits to Algonquin Park? Of playing princess in the picture window? Of learning German prayers? Of moving from home, to home, to home finding life in new soil at each turn.
Do they relish the slumber of winter? Do they get lonely each spring when the faces they have known do not reappear? Do they get jealous at the grandeur of the fellow-traveler peony whose fragrance wafts in the breeze like fine perfume in summer? Do they get weary carrying the weight of family secrets through fall? These are the questions I hold as I remember bulbs and picture windows.
Thinking about the irises today.
To be honest, I am not sure if the irises that are still in my family are the same ones that once lived in my great-grandmother’s yard. I like to think that a few of them still are. I like to think they are parts of her, parts of us, parts of me that survive seasons. I like to think her story — our story — is kept alive through them. I celebrate their strength and beauty. I celebrate their color and detail. I celebrate their timeliness and discretion. I celebrate their humor and billowy beard. I celebrate their dependability and sense of surprise. I celebrate their wisdom and grace.
