The Garden of My Childhood by Jessica Hickman
This essay is part of Jessica N. Hickman's final college portfolio found in her belongings following her unexpected death on April 27, 2001. She received a grade of A.
I remember reading The Velveteen Rabbit as a child. The moral of the story, as given by the Blue Fairy, is still vivid in my mind: if you love something enough, it becomes real. Aside from fueling my increasing obsession with fairies, it perfectly describes my grandmother's garden, the garden of my childhood.
Many people in many parts of the world rise early every morning to tend to the duties of the day. Some rear children; others trade stocks. My grandmother grew flowers. I remember awakening mid-morning in her oversized bed, and as usual, I would be alone. A garden needs attention as soon as the sun rises. The minute the liquid-gold sphere permeated the sky, she would be up, outside, and on her hands and knees weeding, pulling, planting, and watering.
I remember the day she showed me my first Johnny Jump-up. As we sat examining the tiny indigo and yellow petals, she explained to me that these were magic flowers. They appeared out of nowhere. No matter how many times you pull them up, there would be new ones standing in their place the next morning. We walked among the jonquils and prize roses, and she would tell me stories of my mother as a child, running through the same rows of pastel hues.
Grandmother adored African violets. She would fuss over them constantly, caressing the leaves and petals. She would say how incredible it was being the only plant she knew of that actually felt like real velvet. This was a deeper statement coming from her than the average human being because she practically knew about every plant, flower, and bulb that existed in the free world.
The garden was not only cared for with impeccable gentility, it was protected with the passion of a knight fighting for the honor of his lady. One morning she awoke and found that someone had driven through her rose bed, crushing her beloved, and not to mention, award-winning Miranda roses. She was enraged as a mother hen whose chicks had been threatened. Seeing this incident as a conspiracy, she was determined to fight back. She drove nails through several sheets of plywood, and then lined her rosebeds with her "traps". She put an end to the conspiracy.
The demise of the garden began the day Grandmother became ill. Cancer infiltrated her insides. It penetrated her bones and spread through her organs. You could tell how she was feeling before you spoke to her. You just had to look outside at her yard. At first it was small differences. Maybe the roses weren't as vivid as usual or the irises slightly limp. Then Grandmother grew worse. She spent days in bed. The flowers wilted, ravenous from lack of nutrients and care.
The day my grandmother passed away the garden cried for the last time. As I gazed into the yard on the day of the funeral, all I could see was death. The trees refused to produce fruit. The plants no longer flowered. The roses crumpled with the slightest touch. Johnny Jump-ups were no more. The magic was gone, faded forever when the last sweet breath passed through Grandmother's lips.
Yes, loving something enough can make it real. . . alive, like the garden, but there's a downside Miss Blue Fairy forgot to mention. When you make something real, you might as well sign the death certificate because even the most alive, vivid, magical being has to die. No matter how you roll the dice, the outcome is always the same. Am I bitter? No. I'm just dismal. A childhood of memories are not soon forgotten, yet slowly vanish with each passing day. Images so sharp in my thoughts yesterday, today are smudged sillhouettes. Each is foggier than the next.
I long to go back in time, be a child again, wear pink dresses, my hair in braids as I skip among the daisies, jonquils, and of course, roses. Then as the morning dew seeps through my thin clothing, I weave dandilions into a tiny crown. I place it on top of my head. I am now the Blue Fairy. I can create beauty and life. The magic is mine to disperse. With a touch of my wand roses bloom and trees produce fruit. My grandmother is once again in her garden weeding, planting, and watering. Life is anew. The magic has returned, the magic I created.
I remember reading The Velveteen Rabbit as a child. The moral of the story, as given by the Blue Fairy, is still vivid in my mind: if you love something enough, it becomes real. Aside from fueling my increasing obsession with fairies, it perfectly describes my grandmother's garden, the garden of my childhood.
Many people in many parts of the world rise early every morning to tend to the duties of the day. Some rear children; others trade stocks. My grandmother grew flowers. I remember awakening mid-morning in her oversized bed, and as usual, I would be alone. A garden needs attention as soon as the sun rises. The minute the liquid-gold sphere permeated the sky, she would be up, outside, and on her hands and knees weeding, pulling, planting, and watering.
I remember the day she showed me my first Johnny Jump-up. As we sat examining the tiny indigo and yellow petals, she explained to me that these were magic flowers. They appeared out of nowhere. No matter how many times you pull them up, there would be new ones standing in their place the next morning. We walked among the jonquils and prize roses, and she would tell me stories of my mother as a child, running through the same rows of pastel hues.
Grandmother adored African violets. She would fuss over them constantly, caressing the leaves and petals. She would say how incredible it was being the only plant she knew of that actually felt like real velvet. This was a deeper statement coming from her than the average human being because she practically knew about every plant, flower, and bulb that existed in the free world.
The garden was not only cared for with impeccable gentility, it was protected with the passion of a knight fighting for the honor of his lady. One morning she awoke and found that someone had driven through her rose bed, crushing her beloved, and not to mention, award-winning Miranda roses. She was enraged as a mother hen whose chicks had been threatened. Seeing this incident as a conspiracy, she was determined to fight back. She drove nails through several sheets of plywood, and then lined her rosebeds with her "traps". She put an end to the conspiracy.
The demise of the garden began the day Grandmother became ill. Cancer infiltrated her insides. It penetrated her bones and spread through her organs. You could tell how she was feeling before you spoke to her. You just had to look outside at her yard. At first it was small differences. Maybe the roses weren't as vivid as usual or the irises slightly limp. Then Grandmother grew worse. She spent days in bed. The flowers wilted, ravenous from lack of nutrients and care.
Yes, loving something enough can make it real. . . alive, like the garden, but there's a downside Miss Blue Fairy forgot to mention. When you make something real, you might as well sign the death certificate because even the most alive, vivid, magical being has to die. No matter how you roll the dice, the outcome is always the same. Am I bitter? No. I'm just dismal. A childhood of memories are not soon forgotten, yet slowly vanish with each passing day. Images so sharp in my thoughts yesterday, today are smudged sillhouettes. Each is foggier than the next.
I long to go back in time, be a child again, wear pink dresses, my hair in braids as I skip among the daisies, jonquils, and of course, roses. Then as the morning dew seeps through my thin clothing, I weave dandilions into a tiny crown. I place it on top of my head. I am now the Blue Fairy. I can create beauty and life. The magic is mine to disperse. With a touch of my wand roses bloom and trees produce fruit. My grandmother is once again in her garden weeding, planting, and watering. Life is anew. The magic has returned, the magic I created.
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