Many floral memories are connected to my grandmother. She loved the fragrance of lily-of-the-valley. Her last apartment in Hoosick Falls had a patch of cosmos in the front. On one visit with my Great Aunt May, a bouquet of peonies stood in our living room and I still remember that day whenever I smell a peony. And zinnias – which were also part of that little garden in Hoosick Falls – remind me of her, even if there’s no other specific connection, and even if I don’t know for sure whether she noticed or liked them. In my mind, they bring me instantly back to a hot summer stretch of days in which I was visiting Gram. It was just as summer was cresting – the heat had gotten into the earth and stayed there, but the nights were starting to cool down a bit. We opened the windows then and aired out her one bedroom apartment. I slept on a tufted velvet couch in a gorgeous shade of green – a couch that now sits splendidly in my basement and reminds me of her every day.
When the day began, I would slowly awake to Gram’s maneuvers in her impossibly-small kitchen. It had barely enough room for one person to turn around, and two were an impossibility. Not that my twelve-year-old self had any inclination to help in the kitchen. The sweet smell of cinnamon toast, and sometimes pancakes, would wafter through the parlor and I’d disassemble the sheets and blanket from the make-shift bed. The daytime talk shows and game shows would play on the television, and we’d sit and watch for a bit before making whatever the daily excursion was.
Sometimes it was the longer walk to the Grand Union across town, and sometimes it was just down the street and around the corner to church. But on those days when the heat was stultifying, and no breeze rustled the quiet little town, the simplest walks felt like worthy exertions. Gram never seemed to mind, nor did she complain. I also never saw her break a sweat. She was made of sturdier stock than me, having worked in a factory during the war, and taking care of others for most of her life. If she spoiled and doted on me as her first grandson, I wasn’t complaining, but I didn’t need her gifts or devotion – I just wanted to be near her, to feel that kind of unconditional love.
Returning from a walk one day, we paused at the start of the sidewalk that led to her apartment. I noticed the cosmos and zinnias then – radiant sparks of color in what felt like a dull and dusty summer world. She spoke with the landlord in the shaded hallway as I lingered near the flowers. Her sunglasses lent her an air of faded and obscure glamour – echoes of the starlets she’d tell stories about – Greta Garbo and such – and the occasional night out of her own. She wasn’t wild in any way, and there only seemed to be one or two nights where she actually went out to a party, but she held them close to her heart and for my 12-year-old self they were all the golden glamour I needed to settle into her velvet couch and dream of my future and her past.
In the early evening, we’d watch ‘Wheel of Fortune’ and then read or crochet a bit. Even in the un-air-conditioned heat of her apartment, she managed to cook up dinner – spaghetti or kielbasa – and we ate at a little white table with wicker-seated chairs. Colorful glass goblets held my soda and her beer, and though her cooking was simple and lacking in any punch of spice, it always tasted good to me. Neither of us could do very much wrong in the eyes of the other, and so we existed peaceably and happily together.
In another year or two, my carefree childhood state would cease to exist, and as other concerns occupied my days, and I felt further and further from Hoosick Falls, I realized I was growing up. But the love between Gram and me would endure and last until her final days, and during certain hot stretches of summer, she’s still here with me, in the happy countenance of a zinnia.
