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Books About Life on a Farm Written Especially for People Who Like to Read! "Highly recommended reading." The Midwest Book Review Reviews & Readers' Comments |
LeAnn R. Ralph Rural Route 2 Author E6689 970th Ave. Colfax, WI 54730 (715) 308-6336 |
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by LeAnn R. Ralph It wasn't until the Ladies Aid met at our house one afternoon when I was a kid that I finally discovered the real truth about African violets. The women from our church always took turns hosting the meetings, and not long after school had let out for summer vacation, it was my mother's turn. Among the ladies there was an understanding that Mom would always have one of the summer meetings. My mother had been paralyzed in both legs by polio 16 years before I was born, and life in general was easier for her during the summer when she didn't have to worry about snow and cold and ice. So, on this very fine summer afternoon, our west central Wisconsin farmhouse was filled with ladies dressed in their "Sunday finest" never mind that today was Wednesday I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself, either. All Mom had said was, "Just stay out of the way. And don't eat too many cookies." (Actually, my mother didn't have to worry about the cookies. It was the nuts-and-mints mixture in my Norwegian grandmother's glass butterfly dish that was in real danger. But I didn't tell Mom that.) So, I tried my best to stay in the background. Not that it made any difference. The members of the Ladies Aid still pinched my cheeks and patted the top of my head amidst exclamations of "HERE'S Norma's little helper!" As I was making my way through the living room for about the tenth time (and wondering if my cheeks were ever going to feel normal again), I noticed a woman bending over Mom's African violets. She was a notorious busybody, and I couldn't help but wonder why she was paying so much attention to the obviously healthy plants. Surely there couldn't be something wrong with them. Could there? Although my mother had told me to stay out of the way, fortunately, she hadn't mentioned a word about eavesdropping. Listening to other people's conversations was the height of bad manners, Mom always said. On the other hand, the house was so full of women I figured nobody would notice. "Just LOOK at all the flowers!" the woman gushed as I drew closer. "They're absolutely beautiful!" Well, I certainly couldn't disagree with her about that. My mother kept four African violets in the living room a white, a pink, and two purple. I was always fascinated, too, by the fact that the ones with the ruffly-looking flowers had ruffly-looking leaves, whereas the ones with the smooth-edged flowers just had smooth leaves. "These are soooo pretty," the woman said, turning to my mother. "Norma, you MUST tell me your secret. I've tried to raise them for years and years, but they positively REFUSE to grow for me." "I'm sorry to hear that," Mom said sympathetically. I inched a little closer so I wouldn't miss anything. "I don't understand it, either," the woman continued. "My little tea roses do just fine. So do my potted begonias. And once when we went shopping in Minneapolis, I got a gardenia, and it's doing well, too. But those African violets" She shook her head and went back to admiring Mom's flowers. I glanced at my mother, who was pursing her lips and trying not to smile. Mom always claimed she did not have a green thumb. "If they could, house plants would head for the hills when they see me coming," she'd say. Perhaps that was why we didn't have any plants except for the African violets, of course. Which, by the way, seemed to be perfect for my mother. She simply set them near the east window in the living room and then, as she put it, "left them to their own devices." Oh, sure every week when she dusted, she might pluck off a few wilted blooms and would maybe pinch off one or two dead leaves, besides. And then every couple of weeks, or sometimes even once a month, she'd dump a little water on them. One time she'd read in a magazine that a good thing to do with eggshells was toss them in a container, cover them with water, and then use the water for your house plants. The eggshell water, however, didn't seem to make much of an impression on the African violets. They continued to grow and bloom as they'd always done. Eventually when the weather grew warmer and the eggshell water got kind of stinky, Mom concluded it was a waste of time. So the African violets went back to getting just plain old tap water. Whenever she happened to think about watering them, that is. The woman from the Ladies Aid turned to my mother once again. "What kind of fertilizer do you use?" she asked. "Fertilizer?" Mom replied. "Well, I guess I do give them a little fertilizer once in awhile." "Ah-ha," the woman said, "I thought so. What brand?" "Ummmm" My mother looked rather embarrassed. "Errr, you see, the jar is so old, the label peeled off a long time ago and I ahhh don't remember what it's called." "Oh," said the woman. "Well, what temperature water do you use?" My mother's eyebrows slowly crept upwards. "Temperature? Whatever comes out of the tap unless there's still some in the watering can from last time. Then I guess you'd have to say room temperature." "I see," said the woman. "And the watering schedule? I've found my plants do best if I water them every day at 10 a.m. precisely. But if I can't do it then, 6 p.m. is the next best." This time Mom looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I don't have a schedule. Just when I happen to think about it. Sometimes once a month, I suppose " The woman stared at my mother, her mouth pursed into a little, round circle. "Once a month!" Then she turned a pitying glance toward the African violets. "You poor things," she murmured, gently fingering the leaves. "Neglected the way you are, why it's a wonder you're still alive." After the ladies finally left that afternoon, my mother couldn't hold back anymore. She laughed and giggled until she had tears in her eyes. "I can just see it now," she gasped. "Everybody within a 20-mile radius will be told the story of how much Norma Ralph neglects her violets. Like anybody else cares." Which set off a fresh spasm of mirth. "Neglected," she finally managed to say. "Ha-ha. I'll say my African violets are neglected. And it's a good thing, too. If I actually paid attention to them, they'd be dead within a week." For a long time after that, Mom couldn't look at her African violets without smiling. And eventually word got back to her that she was, indeed, now known far and wide as the woman who was "trying her darndest to kill those poor, brave, beautiful plants." (The violets, by the way, still hadn't seemed to notice they were the objects of such horrible neglect.) And that's how I learned the truth about African violets. So, if someone ever tries to tell you violets are hard to raise, don't believe them. If my mother could do it anybody can. |
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