She planted so many seeds.

Mama called almost every morning, if I didn't call her first. If she were here, this mornings call would have been about Winters Solstice. She would have said, "It's December 21st, it's the shortest day of the year." No matter how old we were she always made sure we remembered. It was a love/hate relationship for her. Mama hated dark, she thrived on light. Today we would begin marking the days (and she counted every one) until Spring. 

Each morning her first steps were straight to the windows to let the light in. When her grandchildren were there she would read from the Childcraft about Winters Solstice and if they had questions, she reveled in answering them. Questions about earth were mama's specialty. Dirt, trees, blooms, how things worked and changed, the seasons and how people depended on the signs from animals and plants long before there were meteorologists to share their skills. 

Sometime the children would come home with little seeds in a old jar or cup to nurture and grow. I would almost swear the soil at mamas house was magic. It was rich and you could smell life in it. Often I would go get a bucket or two of soil from her house to mix into my soil when planting. Everything always grew better. 

Mama planted many seeds of love with my children, my nieces and nephews. Time spent with her was seldom idle and always filled with adventure. 

She would wait for a sunny day, put on a jacket and toboggan and go out in the yard to survey the trees, buds and plants. It makes winter go faster, she would say.
Mental notes were made as to what needed trimming, thinning or moving. Her mood lightened as she moved through the yard letting the sun hit her face. She was the most at home when outside. The most at peace. 

Weeks into winter in a casual conversation, she would say "the days are getting longer, I can finally see it now." Of course she meant sunlight was getting longer. I think she and Robert Frost would have gotten along. 

Soon would come the days of toiling in the earth watching things grow and bloom. There would be little snippets of sticks and flowers she would bring to plant in my yard. Phone calls about dutch iris and daylilies were our normal and I loved those conversations. I miss those conversations. She would spend a day looking for her legend we made on her iris colors and varieties. (I knew I should have kept up with it.) We tagged them w/different colored string or twist ties to identify them and she would have me move them to other parts of the yard, of course when blooms were long gone. She didn't allow moving unless the time was right. 

I still have those daylilies, irises, sweet william and forsythia. Her plum trees are here, some ready to be moved before long. An almond shrub sits near the walk coming into our home. I wait for it's blooms, they are one of my favorites.
There's a large Mock Orange from outside my childhood bedroom that will bloom with reckless abandon come late spring. The smell will permeate the air like fine perfume. When I smell it each year, tears fill my eyes and I am transported back to that little bedroom with the eyelet bedspread she carefully pressed and mended all my life. Early mornings she would slip into my room to crank the windows open where I woke to the smell of mock orange. Thank you Jesus, she planted so many seeds.   

Today, it's December 21st, shortest day of the year. Everything is brown outside but there is the promise of spring and it's just around the corner. I will let little hands help me just as my mother did. There are always seeds to plant.