Flowers for broken women who love

My great-aunt Lelia often told me, I want flowers when I am alive, not for my casket. She didn’t care about her funeral. Giving her flowers, saying “I love you,” that was for the days we spent together. Not for a memorial service.

I think of that as I’m writing the novel known on social media as Middle Earth Houston. My friend Gwen, who’s reading it two or three chapters at a time, commented that I certainly was lucky to have so many strong women in my life. Starting with my mother, to be sure. But my mother could be strong because of her safety net of other strong women.

This Mother’s Day post therefore pays tribute to strong women, those women who gave me a sure foundation. It’s my thank-you, sometimes belatedly, sometimes as emphasis for those who are living, always from the bottom of my heart.

A lilac, flower of youthful exuberance for Bobbie Burke, kindergarten teacher with raven hair and porcelain skin, who sat on the floor to teach. For your laughter, for the dancing, singing, finger painting. For teaching us to love friends we didn’t know yet. For embracing Greek, Jewish, Italian, Black, German, Mexican, Spanish, Chinese, and Irish food, traditions, language. And letting us tiny children embrace them with you.

Because of you, school was fun. You made me want to know more, laugh more. “Talking too much” wasn’t a problem in your class. You let me, let us all, be. Greek, Jewish, Italian, Black, German, Mexican, Spanish, Chinese, and Irish.

For Mrs. Buckner whose first name I never knew, a gladiolus straight and tall. Like you, often associated with swords and victory and conquest. But also like you, beautiful and strong and colorful. You were the stern first-grade teacher who taught me the value of a heartfelt “I’m sorry.” When you apologized to me. Grownups had never done that before. Thank you.

You never let on—outwardly—how much you cared about the aching hearts in your crowded classroom. Yet you took note, took names, and made sure no one was passed over. Your somber exterior hid the softest of hearts.

Mrs. Kelly, a beribboned bouquet of daisies and four-leaf clovers. You shared my great-grandmother’s name, even if by marriage. More “liberal” than others in small-town Houston, you nonetheless listened to all our second-grade voices and ensured we were heard. I remember your pretty dresses and how you usually wore green. And how much you loved every child who sat in your circle. Playful, life-giving. Lucky Mrs. Kelly.

The only flower I could give Birdina Fantz? A “common” marigold. In Hindu culture, marigolds symbolize purity, auspiciousness, and the divine; in Eastern Asia, some believe the flower possesses protective qualities. You’d probably prefer the Catholic connection to the Virgin Mary.

You could have taught at any parochial school in Houston for twice the money. But you chose an inner city school with a diverse mix of kids. Some barely had enough to eat, some showed up with bruises, some came from money, some wore the same shirt two weeks in a row. Didn’t matter to you. In your eyes, we were God’s children and you loved us. Your arms were fifty miles wide.

How you managed to teach fourth and fifth grade at the same time and stay sane, I’ll never know. I guess those protective qualities, the “divine,” kicked in.

Ms. Crawford, Ms. Lindley, Ms. Cullen, Ms. Warwick, Mrs. Pieratt, Ms. Robertson, I present you with the most colorful bouquet of sweet peas and dandelions and anemones on the planet. You put up with our junior high selves. I don’t know how you did it. We didn’t like ourselves, and yet you loved us. And our stuffed mouse Hermann and teddy bear Ed and preteen drama over boyfriends and Aggies and Longhorns and general craziness.

You introduced us to Europe, to art, to novels way above our reading level, to advanced algebra, to concepts most twelve-year-olds don’t think about, but that you figured we should know. In your classes, we could do anything, think anything, become anyone we wanted to be. You opened the door to the future and made us believe—in ourselves, but also in that future.

Sweet peas—joyful connection—and anemones for anticipation of what was and is to come. Dandelions for the wishes that would be fulfilled. I cannot dream of a better posy for you six women.

There aren’t enough roses in the world for Frances Hardgrave Anderson, Margaret (“Miz Minyard”) Dement, or Harriet (“Fräulein Grooters”) Dishman. It’s no accident that the subjects you taught—choir, mathematics, and German—have been my lifelong passions. Maggie, in your classroom, I didn’t just learn the definition of derivatives and differentials, or how to calculate them. You taught me why they matter. Frances, you didn’t simply give us difficult choral pieces to tackle, you showed us why pronouncing words the same makes a choir sound better, and what timbre is. Harriet, we didn’t memorize German vocabulary and grammar, you made us write it, flaws and all. Getting the language into our ear, hand-eye-brain coordination.

Your class-rooms were always open to us as well. Before school, during lunch break, after school, we could wander in to talk, to think out loud, or just to have a safe space. And of course to gossip about Mr. Hall. We weren’t your students simply during the specific period you were assigned to teach us. We were your students whenever we had questions. Even if unrelated to the topic at hand.

You three are still in my life, still in the lives of many of us from those days more than fifty years ago. (Yes, I’ll go with the story that you were teaching when you were teenagers, ha!) And I still rely on you, still go to you for affirmation, for counsel, for hugs.

I’ve written recently about Irmtraud Feigs. Ms. Feigs, your resilience and ability to turn the most awful upbringing and circumstances into service to others? Perhaps I should give you dahlias, for inner strength and kindness, for dignity and the beauty that is born of suffering.

And Betsy Colquitt—I must give you a flower that reminds me of your famous banana nut bread, fresh from the oven, and the coffee and conversations that accompanied it. Buttercups for their symbolism of simple unbridled joy, and jasmine for the fragrance of a life well-lived? Not often paired, but then again, you were not my usual mentor.

I can never, ever repay you for your quiet, strong confidence in my abilities as a writer and my worth as a human being.

And then… There are the women in my family I am writing about on a near-daily basis, and that my brain “processes” as I sleep at night.

WeeWee—you loved chrysanthemums, you always thought they were underrated. It’s no surprise to learn that no matter the culture or tradition, “mums” have a positive connotation. Optimism, vitality, and longevity; friendship and gratitude; affection and emotional healing; energy, enthusiasm, and balance. WeeWee, you gave me all of that, you were all of that, and more.

Granny, my grandmother LaRue Heap, there is one and only one flower for you: Lavender. You exuded calm and peace. When I learned later in life that immediately preceding and during your divorce from my abusive grandfather, your husband, you’d had what you called a “nervous breakdown,” I was surprised.

If a baby cried, hand him to you. When I broke my father’s ruler, I gave it to you to fix. When there was chaos, it could be resolved by sitting in the porch swing with you. Your aura immediately brought harmony. Hard to explain unless you were there.

Grandmom, or Viola Norris, for you a desert rose, perhaps sunburned around the edges, not nearly enough water or sustenance. And yet you bloomed and bloomed and bloomed some more. I don’t know how you did it. I had to get close to enjoy your fragrance. You taught me that deserts cannot kill me if I stay near those who love.

Step-grandmother Alice, you were hard to get close to. Maybe snapdragons, since some people see the flower’s mouth as closed and deceptive. But you waited for us, knowing the pain your husband, my grandfather, had caused. You didn’t make us love you. You let us get there on our own.

Because of you, I learned to appreciate abstract art. Because of you, I looked at New York and Chicago as good places, not the evil that Texans assign to those cities. Because of you, I learned that it’s possible to live both large (travel!) and small (in a modest home) and be extraordinarily happy. And once you finally opened the “dragon” mouth and told us about your growing-up years, I learned to respect your resilience and strength.

Great-Gramma, Minnie Lea, sunflowers! Sunflowers! No food in the cupboard? You faced the sun. No matter whether you lived in the falling-down farmhouse or the house in town, you faced the sun. When my mother needed you when she was thirteen-and-a-half, you faced the sun and taught her to do so as well. No matter what, you lifted your face to the sun and kept going. You never saw your life as hard, because you always had the sun.

And above all, my mother, mom, business partner, friend, the person who always believed in me and always let me know so, Joyce, a bouquet is not enough for you. Fields of bluebonnets and lazy Susans and Indian paintbrushes and buttercups and larkspurs would only be the beginning. You found joy where there was sadness, laughter in the most offbeat things, beauty in strangers’ faces, strength in the mountains, and friendship in the people you drew into your orbit.

Many would’ve been broken by the life you had. But you let it transform you into a vessel for the purest form of love. Unconditional. Even when you were hurt or injured. You weren’t perfect, but your open heart made it seem that way.

Because of you, my mom, these other beautiful, giving, gentle women were free to pour their kindness into my life, unobstructed. I don’t take that for granted.

To the women who’ve made me who I am, and who keep on caring no matter what, thank you. On this Mother’s Day, I salute the “sisterhood” that has been, that is, and that will always be my sure foundation.

I am one lucky woman.