Firmly planted

By Susie Hillman

Plants pursue a never-ending quest for nourishment of the liquid and solar variety.[1] Clearly, the very essence of life. But what can our obsession with plants teach us about our own personal journeys?

My aunts, mom and grandma always talk about their plants when they get together. They trade cuttings, smuggling them over state lines to propagate at home.[2] They discuss their plants like children or pets. They share tips. Compare progress.

We turn plants into sentimental[3] objects as we do with books and art, but with plants it's different because they're alive. They grow and change. You see photographs of your former apartment, and there's that peace lily, half its present size. It's like looking at old family pictures: "Look how little you used to be!" Plants have a history and a life. That's why they're so hard to give up, even when you don't love them anymore, even when you don't have room for them. What are you supposed to do, just let them die? Impossible.

When I had to move everything out of my house recently, I realized there were more little plants than I was willing to find places for in my new cramped quarters.[4] I thought, it's silly to be sentimental about these plants. I can replace them later if I want. Yet I just couldn't give up the succulent[5] I kept alive during my first year of teaching.

It sat on top of a microwave, in a tiny, dark, cold office space that was really a storage closet with a window. During the times I thought I might lose my mind, I watched the plant's health. It refused to wither. It stood hardy and strong, and occasionally sprung a tender new leaf. Sometimes I would forget to water it or take it home during vacations, but it withstood this neglect and stubbornly lived on. This buoyed[6] my spirit more than chocolate or pats on the back.

Our adopted foliage can serve as a sort of bellwether for our lives.[7] Most of us have gone through periods where we let the phone ring, the dishes pile up, and the houseplants shrivel.[8] Eventually, the pile of brittle leaves collecting beneath the ficus forces us to assess the state of our lives.[9]

Of course, because we have sentimentalized our plants, it's tempting to read their lives for clues to our own. Once, when a relationship was dying, my African violet exploded with unseasonable purple flowers.[10] Maybe, I thought, there's hope. There was―for the violet.

My stepmom visits a particular hemlock[11] in a park near her home every New Year's Day. She walks circles around its trunk, one hand on the bark[12], releasing regrets from the old year and planning for the new one. Her own history and life is now intertwined with the hemlock's, as year after year, the tree receives her hopes and ushers them forth with fresh oxygen.[13] "Here you go," it says. "Here's some more life."

1. 植物总是孜孜不倦地汲取水分和阳光的种种滋养。

2. 她们跨越州界交换植物的插条，让它们在自己家里生根发芽。cutting: 插条，是从母株上截取的枝条，在适当条件下可培育出新的植株；smuggle: 偷运，走私；propagate: 繁衍。

3. sentimental: 寓有情感的，感情用事的，下文的sentimentalize指"为……而伤感"。

4. cramped: 狭小的；quarters:（常用作复数）住处。

5. succulent: 多肉植物。

6. buoy: 鼓励，振奋……的精神。

7. adopt: 收养；foliage: [总称] 叶，此处指观叶植物；bellwether: 楷模。

8. houseplant: 室内植物；shrivel: 枯萎。

9. brittle: 易碎的，此处指落叶干枯后易碎的状态；ficus: 热带榕属植物，其中某些种类为常见的室内植物。

10. African violet: 非洲堇；unseasonable: 不合季节的。

11. hemlock: 铁杉。

12. bark: 树皮。

13. intertwine: 交织；usher: 宣告；oxygen: 氧气。

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Forget and forgive

As I sat perched in the second-floor window of our brick schoolhouse that afternoon, my heart began to sink further with each passing car. This was a day I'd looked forward to for weeks: Miss Pace's fourth-grade, end-of-the-year party. Miss Pace had kept a running countdown on the blackboard all that week, and our class of nine-year-olds had bordered on insurrection by the time the much-anticipated "party Friday" had arrived.

I had happily volunteered my mother when Miss Pace requested cookie volunteers. Mom's chocolate chips reigned supreme on our block, and I knew they'd be a hit with my classmates. But two o'clock passed, and there was no sign of her. Most of the other mothers had already come and gone, dropping off their offerings of punch, crackers, cupcakes and brownies. My mother was missing in action.

"Don't worry, Robbie, she'll be along soon," Miss Pace said as I gazed forlornly down at the street. I looked at the wall clock just in time to see its black minute hand shift to half-past.

Around me, the noisy party raged on, but I wouldn't leave my window watch post. Miss Pace did her best to coax me away, but I just stayed there, holding out hope that the familiar family car would round the corner, carrying my rightfully embarrassed mother with a tin of her famous cookies tucked under her arm.

The three o'clock bell soon jolted me from my thoughts and I dejectedly grabbed my book bag from my desk and shuffled out the door for home.

On the walk to home, I plotted my revenge. I would slam the front door upon entering, refuse to return her hug when she rushed over to me, and vow never to speak to her again.

The house was empty when I arrived and I looked for a note on the refrigerator that might explain my mother's absence, but found none. My chin quivered with a mixture of heartbreak and rage. For the first time in my life, my mother had let me down.

I was lying face-down on my bed upstairs when I heard her come through the front door.

"Robbie," she called out a bit urgently. "Where are you?"

I could then hear her darting frantically from room to room, wondering where I could be. I remained silent. In a moment, she mounted the steps. When she entered my room and sat beside me on my bed, I didn't move but instead stared blankly into my pillow refusing to acknowledge her presence.

"I'm so sorry, honey," she said. "I just forgot. I got busy and forgot―plain and simple."

I still didn't move. "Don't forgive her," I told myself. "She humiliated you. She forgot you. Make her pay."

Then my mother did something completely unexpected. She began to laugh. I could feel her shudder as the laughter shook her. It began quietly at first and then increased violently.

I was incredulous. How could she laugh at a time like this? I rolled over and faced her, ready to let her see the rage and disappointment in my eyes.

But my mother wasn't laughing at all. She was crying. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "I let you down. I let my little boy down."

She sank down on the bed and began to weep like a little girl. I was dumbstruck. I had never seen my mother cry. To my understanding, mothers weren't supposed to.

I desperately tried to recall her own soothing words from times past when I'd skinned knees or stubbed toes, times when she knew just the right thing to say. But in this moment of tearful plight, words of profundity abandoned me like a worn-out shoe.

"It's okay, Mom," I stammered as I reached out and gently stroked her hair. "We didn't even need those cookies. There was plenty of stuff to eat. Don't cry. It's all right. Really."

My words, as inadequate as they sounded to me, prompted my mother to sit up. She wiped her eyes, and a slight smile began to crease her tear-stained cheeks. I smiled back awkwardly, and she pulled me to her.

We didn't say another word. We just held each other in a long, silent embrace. When we came to the point where I would usually pull away, I decided that, this time, I could hold on, perhaps, just a little bit longer.

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Almond-shaped brooch

In 1945, a 12-year-old boy saw something in a shop window that set his heart racing. But the price―five dollars―was far beyond Reuben Earle's means. Five dollars would buy almost a week's groceries for his family.

Reuben couldn't ask his father for the money. Everything Mark Earle made through fishing in Bay Roberts, Newfoundland, Canada. Reuben's mother, Dora, stretched like elastic to feed and clothe their five children.

Nevertheless, he opened the shop's weathered door and went inside. Standing proud and straight in his flour-sack shirt and washed-out trousers, he told the shopkeeper what he wanted, adding, "But I don't have the money right now. Can you please hold it for me for some time?"

"I'll try," the shopkeeper smiled. " Folks around here don't usually have that kind of money to spend on things. It should keep for a while."

Reuben respectfully touched his worn cap and walked out into the sunlight with the bay rippling in a freshening wind. There was purpose in his loping stride. He would raise the five dollars and not tell anybody.

Hearing the sound of hammering from a side street, Reuben had an idea.

He ran towards the sound and stopped at a construction site. People built their own homes in Bay Roberts, using nails purchased in Hessian sacks from a local factory. Sometimes the sacks were discarded in the flurry of building, and Reuben knew he could sell them back to the factory for five cents a piece.

That day he found two sacks, which he took to the rambling wooden factory and sold to the man in charge of packing nails.

The boy's hand tightly clutched the five-cent pieces as he ran the two kilometers home.

Near his house stood the ancient barn that housed the family's goats and chickens. Reuben found a rusty soda tin and dropped his coins inside. Then he climbed into the loft of the barn and hid the tin beneath a pile of sweet smelling hay.

It was dinner time when Reuben got home. His father sat at the big kitchen table, working on a fishing net. Dora was at the kitchen stove, ready to serve dinner as Reuben took his place at the table.

He looked at his mother and smiled. Sunlight from the window gilded her shoulder-length blonde hair. Slim and beautiful, she was the center of the home, the glue that held it together.

Her chores were never-ending. Sewing clothes for her family on the old Singer treadle machine, cooking meals and baking bread, planting and tending a vegetable garden, milking the goats and scrubbing soiled clothes on a washboard. But she was happy. Her family and their well-being were her highest priority.

Every day after chores and school, Reuben scoured the town, collecting the hessian nail bags. On the day the two-room school closed for the summer, no student was more delighted than Reuben. Now he would have more time for his mission.

All summer long, despite chores at home weeding and watering the garden, cutting wood and fetching water―Reuben kept to his secret task.

Then all too soon the garden was harvested, the vegetables canned and stored, and the school reopened. Soon the leaves fell and the winds blew cold and gusty from the bay. Reuben wandered the streets, diligently searching for his hessian treasures.

Often he was cold, tired and hungry, but the thought of the object in the shop window sustained him. Sometimes his mother would ask: "Reuben, where were you? We were waiting for you to have dinner."

"Playing, Mum. Sorry."

Dora would look at his face and shake her head. Boys.

Finally spring burst into glorious green and Reuben's spirits erupted. The time had come! He ran into the barn, climbed to the hayloft and uncovered the tin can. He poured the coins out and began to count.

Then he counted again. He needed 20 cents more. Could there be any sacks left any where in town? He had to find four and sell them before the day ended.

Reuben ran down Water Street.

The shadows were lengthening when Reuben arrived at the factory. The sack buyer was about to lock up.

"Mister! Please don't close up yet."

The man turned and saw Reuben, dirty and sweat stained.

"Come back tomorrow, boy."

"Please, Mister. I have to sell the sacks now―please."The man heard a tremor in Reuben's voice and could tell he was close to tears.

"Why do you need this money so badly?"

"It's a secret."

The man took the sacks, reached into his pocket and put four coins in Reuben's hand. Reuben murmured a thank you and ran home.

Then, clutching the tin can, he headed for the shop.

"I have the money," he solemnly told the owner.

The man went to the window and retrieved Reuben's treasure.

He wiped the dust off and gently wrapped it in brown paper. Then he placed the parcel in Reuben's hands.

Racing home, Reuben burst through the front door. His mother was scrubbing the kitchen stove. "Here, Mum! Here!" Reuben exclaimed as he ran to her side. He placed a small box in her work roughened hand.

She unwrapped it carefully, to save the paper. A blue-velvet jewel box appeared. Dora lifted the lid, tears beginning to blur her vision.

In gold lettering on a small, almond-shaped brooch was the word Mother.

It was Mother's Day, 1946.

Dora had never received such a gift; she had no finery except her wedding ring. Speechless, she smiled radiantly and gathered her son into her arms.

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Gloria's picture

Golden sunlight danced in the treetops, and children's laughter filled the park. The smell of popcorn played on the breeze, and life seemed good. It was one of the happiest Saturday mornings I had spent with my little daughter, Gigi.

That is, until two strangers threw her into their car and sped away. It seemed like a bad dream. I could barely whisper when the police questioned me. For hours we waited, but there was no word on the whereabouts of the car. Tears would start to come. Then nothing. I was numb with fear.

"Go home, Ma'am," the sergeant said. "I'll have an officer drive you. We'll also want to monitor your telephone. The kidnappers might call, and we'll want to get a trace. Trust me, these guys can't get far." After what had just happened, it was hard for me to trust anything.

My friend Gloria came over that afternoon. "I heard about Gigi on the radio," she said. "Everyone is looking for the car. The interstates are all blocked." She took my hand.

"Look here," Gloria said. "I want you have this picture, and I want you to pray with me."

It was a picture of a little girl sound asleep in her bed. Standing by the bed was a tall, blond angel. His hand was touching the girl's shoulder as he smiled down at her.

My nerves were frazzled. "You know I don't believe in that kind of thing!" I snapped. "I'm too exhausted for any hocus-pocus right now, Gloria! I want my daughter home!" I started to shake, and then I began sobbing.

Gloria placed the photo on our mantle and knelt down beside me. "Just pray with me," she said, holding my hand.

I had no strength left, so we prayed and waited what seemed an eternity. Together, we waited by the phone until sundown. The phone never rang.

Suddenly, the front door swung open. I looked up and screamed.

There stood Gigi. "Gigi! Thank God!" I cried, throwing my arms around her. "Where did those men take you? How did you get home? Did the police find you?"

"No Mommy!" said Gigi. "I was real scared because those men said they were taking me far away. We were going real fast on an old rock road I'd never seen before. But then a tall man walked out in front of the car, and they ran off the road and hit a tree.

Then the tall man ran up and opened the car door and pulled me out. He was real nice, and said I would be okay now, and that those men couldn't hurt me. I must have gone to sleep, because then I woke up here in front of our house. He must have brought me home."

"But who … how did he know … where to bring you?" My voice broke and trailed to a whisper.

"I don't know, Mommy," Gigi said. "But he was real friendly, and I wasn't scared of him at all."

Just then Gigi noticed Gloria's picture on the mantle. "That's him!" She squealed, pointing at the picture. "Mommy, the tall blond man dressed like an angel. That's the man that pulled me out of the car!"

I felt chill-bumps across my neck and arms. Gloria turned pale. "Are you sure that's the man?" Gloria asked.

"Yeah, that's him okay. Except he didn't have wings, and he was wearing blue jeans and a tee shirt. But that's him exactly. I'd remember him anywhere!"

Later that night, the police found the injured kidnappers in their wrecked car fifty miles from our home. When questioned, the driver remembered swerving to avoid hitting a tall blond man. The backseat door that Gigi sat by had been completely torn off its hinges.

Twenty years have gone by. We have never heard from anyone claiming to have rescued Gigi. There have been no logical explanations for Gigi's miraculous escape and return home from a wreck so far away.

There have always been things that people can't explain. But, from that day forward, I've never doubted that many of those things are divine miracles. I believe that all experiences, positive and negative, are given to us for our strengthening and learning.

Gigi now takes her little girl to the park on Saturdays. They enjoy the sunlight as it dances in the treetops, the smell of popcorn, and the laughter of children. She keeps Gloria's picture on her mantle, and she remembers her angelic friend. And, like my daughter, I have a faith that has carried me through many trials since that day many years ago.

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