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September 2018

September has a way of making its flower colors pop, perhaps more-so than any other time of the year. I think it’s the cooler temperatures and the lower slant of the sun in the sky. The blue seen above is the deepest it gets in September. That makes the perfect foil for some of the year’s brightest blooms. 

This summer got off to a very late and stunted start. I thought we had caught up, but based on the late appearance of the morning glories and seven sons’ flower it seems we are still a bit behind. Normally I don’t mind extending things for as long as possible; this year we are ready to move forward. Still, let’s not rush such beauty. Let it linger as long as it likes. 

The dusty town of Hoosick Falls is where my grandmother was born and raised, and in which she spent about 80 years of her life. When we were old enough to stay on our own, my brother and I were each allotted a couple of days each summer to spend with her, and they were golden memories that remain woven in my heart. Summers were hot and humid then, but I was young enough not to mind. Gram had a couple of fans that oscillated near the windows at night, when I was camped out on a gorgeous green tufted velvet sofa.

This was the second apartment I would know in Hoosick Falls. The first, scene of childhood Easters, was right near the railroad. The train would charge through and shake the entire house – a thrill to us children, especially in the middle of the night. All Gram’s music boxes and whimsical tchotchkes would rattle and clink, while my brother and I would pretend an earthquake was rocking the land like some cheap ratings ploy on ‘Our House’.

In her second apartment, we were far from the railroad, but at the bottom of the main street that came into town. It was the home of a retired doctor, though ‘doctor’ meant variable things in my grandmother’s day. He was an irascible old man, who sometimes rubbed Gram the wrong way, but it was a decent enough space, so she stayed there for a number of years. I remember the summer most in that space.

We would spend the day walking the block or two into the main stretch of town – where the antique store was, and the old drugstore, and the church that Mom made sure we attended if we happened to be there on a Sunday morning. Gram would have taken us anyway; the way she constantly worried her rosary was a continual reminder of her Catholic faith and fears. Just up the street was where my Mom had attended Catholic school.

We would walk to see Gram’s relatives and friends, and on shopping days we would travel quite a distance to get to the Grand Union, which was over a bridge and across a busy stretch of road and I always marveled how she did it in the winter. We took things slow in the summer, happily settling into a routine of daytime television, a daily excursion, and then a homecooked dinner or meal at a relative’s. Mostly, though, I remember short walks around her house, and the little patch of dry dirt bordered by a worn wooden fence where a small stretch of pink cosmos rose and gave glad tidings to those of us lucky enough to pass. Occasionally the doctor would be nearby, waiting in the shade and watching, and as much as I distrusted him (I would always side with Gram in all her personality conflicts and peccadilloes), he was kind enough to me. Not all adults were so inclined.

I brushed by the feathery leaves of the cosmos, and peered into the happy yellow center of each vibrant pink bloom, while overhead the sun beat down and the sky was light blue and the world seemed to stop for a moment. Like the goodness that was an endless summer, so too was my grandmother, whose love knew no bounds, and who could be counted on to give her grandchildren the childhood she had rebuilt in her memory. Her past was painted over in shades of rose and pink, as if she had uncovered the secret to making a summer in Hoosick Falls no less beautiful than the perfect patch of cosmos around the corner.

This summer, I planted cosmos for the first time in a long while. They didn’t come up as well as I remember those from my grandmother’s place. Maybe the soil was too rich and damp. Maybe they liked it dry and unwelcoming. A bit of hardship to make them feel alive. Like my Gram, they were survivors, and had no need for the pampering and care I so badly wanted to provide. Yet I managed to coax a single bloom from the packet of seeds I’d scattered and raked gently into the soil back in the spring. It winked at me like a Grandmother might, then went on its way being pretty just for the sake of being pretty.