I’m dedicating this story to the child within each of us. (Excerpted – kinda – from “A Good Home”.)
**
My first garden had everything we children needed: tall trees with big outstretched arms, a wide stream and acres of fields to play in. All this stood beside and behind a tiny pink farmhouse in the Jamaican countryside where a mother and father and five children lived.
A pink farmhouse? Yes.
Seven people in a tiny pink house? How tiny?
Two bedrooms, two front rooms.
Must have been crowded, I hear you thinking.
But this was a land of mild temperatures and hot sun. Children spent many of their waking hours outside. Nature – the wildness of it, the near-danger of it, the freedom of it – was our garden. A child’s own garden.
It wasn’t until our family moved to our grandmother’s much larger house in a nearby village that the first memories of a flower garden — the kind that people tend — lodged themselves in my seven-year- old mind. It was in front of the house, under a window.
I remember that garden now as a small space full of pretty flowers. Roses, zinnias and dahlias, Joseph’s Coat of Many Colours and other things grew there, each cheerfully elbowing out the other, competing for space and sun.
And I remember these, above everything else: the fairy flowers.
Clusters of tiny flowers bloomed in gentle colours: pink, white, yellow, mauve. Unlike the other flowers in the garden, these huddled in small patches, as if supporting each other — or seeking warmth from the cool, early-morning mountainside air.
“Luminous”, I’d call them now, because their petals seemed to glow, as if someone had polished each one very tenderly till it shone.
It was magic: they simply appeared one day, as if a fairy had waved her wand above the soil. The size of them – about three inches tall — and the magic of them made me think that these were the sort of flowers that fairies would have growing in their own garden.
Then, when I wasn’t looking – perhaps when I was at school during the day, or asleep during the night – the flowers disappeared completely. When that happened, I imagined that the fairies had brought them to another garden where other children could enjoy them. It was a sad and hopeful feeling all at once.
The timing of the flowers’ arrival always seemed spot-on: Easter time, or Holy Week, as church-going families called it. And so, surrounded by the mysterious stories of Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection, my sisters and I decided that the tiny flowers were to be called Easter Lilies. Easter lilies — brought by fairies.
It wasn’t the first time – or the last – that I’d get my magic and miracles mixed up. For a child who is told ghost stories and biblical tales of miraculous resurrection finds it easy to believe in fairies.
Unknown to my parents, I even thought of ghosts and fairies in church. When the pastor got too fiery, or too boring, or glared at me for giggling and whispering to my sister, I imagined a kind ghost or fairy – or maybe God himself – putting him to sleep right there in the pulpit – just for a while.
Now – with a garden of my own – reality overtakes imagination, most days. I know that pretty gardens take a lot of work. Those magical moments of my childhood were hardworking times for my parents.
It was my mother who tended the little garden and made sure the flowers would bloom. It must have given her great pleasure, but it was work — along with her other duties as a mother, wife, designer and seamstress of women’s dresses, and active church member.
Still, I hope Mama would forgive me for wondering — at least when it comes to the little garden — if she got a bit of help from the fairies.
What fun and beautiful reflections from your childhood Cynthia. I love the idea of fairy flowers. Maybe those of us who love flowers and gardening do receive help from the nature spirits. 🌷😍
So kind of you to say so, Brad.
I hope you had a good Easter.
Lovely!
Thank you!
Lovely imaginings.
Thank you!
Especially these days, I think I need to return to imaginings of the lovely kind.
I hope you are doing well.
Thank you for bringing magic and joy to my day.
What a nice sentence to read!
Thank you, my friend, for that message.
I hope you had a lovely Easter.
Wonderful memories, and I enjoyed the smile while reading. Thank you for sharing. Hope you have a lovely Easter weekend with your grands, and the bunny brings lots of fun treats.
We did, thanks. Though I had to pry a large chocolate bunny from the toddlers hands, as she seemed determined to eat the whole thing. The ears and most of the head were already eaten! How was your Easter?
I love the whimsy and magic of this story from your childhood!
Thank you, Liz! I hope your Easter was lovely.
I love the imagery in your words, Cynthia. Childhood, what a precious time in life! With all its freedom to explore and dream, children often do not know how hard it was for the parents.
So well, said, dear Lavinia. Coming from the expert in nature imagery and metaphors, I take that as a high compliment. I hope you all had a great Easter.
Thank you for the praise, dear Cynthia! I still hope to meet you someday!
Your words paint a lovely picture.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts.
I’m an old lady, and I still believe in the fairies.
Have a peaceful day, Cynthia.
So nice to hear from you, Karen.
And you must have become an old lady when I wasn’t looking.
I hope you had a lovely Easter.
This was always one of my favourite stories from your book “ A Good Home”. Thanks again for sharing the magic.
Thanks so much, Arna!
I’m very glad to hear from you.
I, too love crocuses! They remind me of my mum too because she used to get so irate with the squirrels for digging the bulbs up and eating them … except then they began to reappear in all sorts of odd places because the squirrels didn’t eat all of them and never seemed to remember where they buried the rest. So the frustration was tempered a little by seeing where the survivors would reappear! She still kept planting them, too.
How lovely, Cynthia. I particularly love the idea that the fairies brought them to another child’s garden to admire. I hope you are well.