While I was in the grocery store this evening, I spied with my eye these woody stems with fuzzy pods in the flower department. I may or may not have gasped with glee. I immediately walked over to them and rubbed one of the pods to release the memory. I flipped the label over to see what they called it. Of course it wasn't written on there, but I knew full well what it was.
Years ago I lived in a charming little house leased to me by a sweet 75 year old Moravian lady in NC. It was her childhood family home, her father built it. I loved the house and I loved her. We visited each other across the adjacent trail for 11 years. I enjoyed meandering through her wild garden. It was so haphazard and some things looked dead but she would tell me "Just you wait." and then it would happen. Bright yellow Forsythia brightened many a dismal winter day from her window. And then one day I saw something happening on another small tree. I was intrigued and walked up to it as Mrs.C walked out of her house and to me.
"What is this?" I asked.
This little stooped over, white haired lady straightened up the best she could, all 4 feet of her and peered at me with her bright blue eyes. I think now she probably thought I was goading her to say it. I really didn't know it.
"Well this is a PUSSY (enough pause for alarm) Willow." she said without a hint of lewdness.
"Oh, that's interesting." I answered, not cracking a smile, Far be it from me to cause a good Moravian to stumble.
Mrs.C cut some of the woody stems of the Pussy Willow and some Forsythia for me.
A few years later we had a terrible ice storm and I went over to check on Mrs. C. The power had been out for days. She had a roaring fire in her fireplace and a pot of beans going on her wood stove that I thought was for "show."
After the visit she walked me to the door. When I stepped out I saw it. The tree was snapped all over with the fronds laying on the ice and snow. "Oh Mrs. C!! Your Pussy.................................... and nothing. Couldn't think of the next word to save my life.
Do you think Mrs. C would help a girl out? Uh, uh. She left me floundering and red faced until she backed into her door laughing hysterically. This was earth before Google, before internet!! So, I had to pull and from my own resources and finally about a half hour later I called her and her phone went to mailbox. "Willow" was all I said and hung up.
So these fronds came home with me today. I remember Mrs. C as I put them a jar in the window sill. I remember my daughter Mickie, we laughed about this story for so many years. I miss them both. Thank God for provocation and memory. Even if it's absurd.
