No matter what the state of the world, peonies have been blooming in the late spring for centuries. There’s something comforting about that perspective, particularly in these disheartening times. One of the longer-lived perennials, there are peony beds that have lasted for decades, and the three in front of our home have been there for about eighteen years. I know because I planted them the first year we moved in.
Strangely enough, it wasn’t in my parents’ garden where I first learned to love peonies. It was in the neighbors’ yard, over a chain link fence that lent them a forbidden aspect which only added to their allure. From the vibrant fuchsia of their petals to the intoxicating perfume they emitted, it was love and fascination at first encounter.
I was small enough to squeeze through the tiny path that went along the side of their house, a corridor bordered by the house and then the fence, and backed by a tight row of privet. When I got to the bed of peonies, they rose to my height, so robust and high did they grow. If there had been rain or a morning dew, sometimes the flowerhead would lean into the fence, and I could bring them to my face and inhale the delicious fragrance. Always slightly anxious, even as a child, I found that moment of beauty brought me a brief bit of peace. That glimpse of happiness is recalled every time I smell a peony bloom.
Later years would bring more happy memories – the beds at Suzie’s house on Locust Ave and the day I married Andy come to mind – and I’ve added more plants to our gardens to bring back more memories while crafting new ones.
