Weeds or Wildflowers?
As a young gardener, I held two irrefutable convictions. As far as I was concerned, a weed is just a plant out of place—especially if it has lovely or interesting foliage and beautiful blooms. I also had the idea that garden clubwomen were the most genteel of ladies. I had never considered that either of these ideas was not universal.
I do spend time in my flowerbeds, diligently—if sporadically—uprooting mulberry weeds and carefully depositing them and their army of seeds into a container to dispose of them properly. Once I even resorted to applying a pre-emerge to render the little interlopers impotent but I lost that battle too. I vigilantly guard my yard against any of the invasive species. I make amends to these uninvited beauties by displaying them in my home. For example, Japanese wisteria makes a gorgeous arrangement on my table, and I am not above snipping a few cascading blossoms from the massive vine on the roadside for the pleasure of those who dine at my house. I don’t allow it to take root in my yard however.
As to the gentility of garden club members, I had no doubts. After all, working with flowers and plants is the best antidote for whatever worries or cares tempt one to be otherwise. Oh, I had clerked at flower shows when two of the judges had a spirited discussion on whether a particular arrangement sporting a slender stalk adorned with one hefty bloom fit in the category of line or line mass. That was merely a difference of opinion and certainly not personal.
The spring flower show brought a challenge to my long held beliefs. Although my dues for the year were current, I had not been active in garden club for several months because I was in the process of finishing a graduate degree, having a baby and moving across town. Entering our spring garden show was not even on the fringes of my mind until my friend called and pleaded with me to enter. She had taken on the job of chairperson for the show. On the day of the deadline, she was one arrangement short.
“Just a small arrangement to go on the coffee table in the den,” she begged.
Sucker that I am, I gave in and began to plan. The anticipation of a flower show was a welcome relief from diapers and the dullness of rearranging the words in my thesis again.
The theme of the show related to the history of our area. I don’t remember the exact period my arrangement was supposed to represent but it lent itself to a rural, early period—back when settlers were moving into the area. It was a time when a vase was not an essential item for a trek halfway across a continent. A time when gardening meant growing food for the family.
On the day before the show, I searched through my kitchen to find an appropriate container. A gray-splotched enamel drip coffee pot—the size that makes only one cup—caught my eye. Perfect! I put my oasis in to soak, plopped my six-month-old child in his car seat and drove down county roads looking for anything in bloom. I came home with a bucket full of Queen Anne’s lace, Philadelphia fleabane, Venus’ looking glass, cardinal flower and various other blossoms from nature’s bounty to condition overnight.
The next morning I filled the little coffeepot with “wildflowers” and added two bright red petunias from my yard as the heavier accent pieces for emphasis. The material that I had gathered was mostly red, white, or blue so that dictated the color scheme of my arrangement. I rummaged through my linens to find an appropriate base to complement my work. A red and white hand-woven placemat in a very old traditional design called to me.
My friend came by that afternoon and picked up my design to place in the show. She declared it beautiful and thanked me a great deal more than I thought necessary. Anything that filled the hole in the schedule was bound to be beautiful to the chairperson.
Well, the judges loved it—really loved it. They awarded it the tri-color ribbon, which is given to the best arrangement made of all fresh materials. I was surprised and delighted. Not everyone was. A couple of members, led by one in particular, were very vocal in their displeasure. They considered it a disgrace. They declared that I had not even been active all year. Those were just plain weeds. We were a garden club; we cultivated and grew flowers. Never mind that fully one-half of the flowers in the show came from the florist and several members hired someone to do all of their yard work.
My friend and I heard the discussion from a distance, but I knew they intended their words for my ears. I was tempted to pick up the ribbon, walk over to the two complainers, and offer it to them. The temptation lasted only a second. I AM a gracious garden club lady. I learned something important that night—everyone does not consider a weed simply a plant out of place and some garden club ladies, who ARE gracious most of the time, can be vicious. These members are gracious ladies—they just needed to spend a little time removing those plants- out- of- place from their flowerbeds.