Mullis: The blooms that bind defy the grave

My grandmother loved lily of the valley, which she looked for every May. She loved their little white bells. She loved their delicate scent. She loved their heartiness.

When I was growing up, my grandmother often came to our house to babysit. My childhood home had a thick patch of lily of the valley growing wild on the shady side of the driveway. Mid-May, when my grandmother declared they were ready, we would pick them.

Lily of the valley is easy to pick incorrectly. My grandmother taught us to slide our fingers down the stem, pinch the base and pull up – out slipped the stem from its broad leaves, bells dancing. If you pinched too high, your fingers would slip up the stem, de-belling the flowers.

We used our shirt tails as baskets, filling them with fragrant blooms. We took our bounty to the kitchen table where my grandmother sorted them into bouquets. Some she placed in water glasses, which we put in front of the Blessed Mother statue, in the middle of the table, and on the windowsill over the kitchen sink. Some were for our teachers. She wrapped the stems of these bouquets in wet napkins, which she covered with tin foil for easy transport.

I don’t know why picking these flowers stands out in my memory. Maybe it was because my family didn’t garden. We didn’t have homegrown tomatoes or real Christmas Trees. We barely had houseplants. Bringing nature indoors was a once-a-year thing, something I associated with my grandmother.

We moved when I was 14. Our new home didn’t have a lily of the valley patch, nor was it close enough for regular grandma visits. Still, every May, whenever I caught that delicate scent on the air, I would search for those little white bells. If it didn’t involve trespassing, I would pick them.

Sometimes I would pick them anyway.

When my husband and I bought our first home, the yard was too sunny for lily of the valley. Our next home had a shady backyard teeming with lily of the valley.

When we moved to Battle Creek, our house had a shady side, but no lily of the valley.

My husband made a heart-shaped flower bed out of stone there, which I filled with red impatiens.

The following May, I saw my mother-in-law had lily of the valley in her yard. I confessed being jealous, which she didn’t understand.

“Why don’t you plant some?”

Plant them? I thought they just grew wild.

My mother-in-law shook her head. She is a gardener.

She brought me some lily of the valley transplants. They looked terrible. I planted them by the red heart. The stalks laid on the ground like cooked spaghetti noodles.

They were heartier than they looked.

The next spring, new stalks cut through the dirt like sharp green pencils, which unwound into two broad leaves and a slender stem with white bells. Battle Creek was too far for my grandmother to visit comfortably, but I told her about them.

Ten years later, my transplants have taken over the red heart.

Every May, when they are ready, I pick the flowers, sliding my fingers down the stems, pinching the base and pulling up. I turn water glasses into vases, placing bouquets in the middle of my table, on the windowsill over my kitchen sink and by my grandmother’s picture.

My grandmother’s grave is on the east side of the state. But every May, when the lily of the valley blooms by my house, I feel she is in Battle Creek, paying me a visit.

Meet Nicole

Nicole L.V. Mullis will be at Battle Creek Books on May 19 to sign copies of “A Teacher Named Faith”. See www.NicoleLVMullis.com for details.