At historical sites, trees that were standing when a historical event occurred are designated a Witness Tree and a marker placed by the National Park Service says as much. T and I have seen this at a host of historical sites, at places like the Battle of Gettysburg and Antietam. At Seneca Falls, New York, in the yard at Elizabeth Cody Stanton’s home along the Erie Canal, the tree in the left of this photo was there when Stanton sat on her front porch and dreamt of the Declaration of Sentiments.
I like trees anyway, but the witness trees seem special because they have seen so much and stood through time, silent witnesses to major events.
In my backyard, I have a patch of iris bulbs that came from my great grandmother’s home in Missouri. They grew there when my father was a child in the 1940s. A patch of the bulbs was transplanted when he moved to California in the 1950s; there they grew in my grandmother’s yard. My father planted them in the homes we lived in while I was growing up. Eight years ago, he separated the bulbs and mailed me a few of my own. I planted them in a sunny corner by the garage and waited for flowers.
In my backyard, I have a patch of iris bulbs that came from my great grandmother’s home in Missouri. They grew there when my father was a child in the 1940s. A patch of the bulbs was transplanted when he moved to California in the 1950s; there they grew in my grandmother’s yard. My father planted them in the homes we lived in while I was growing up. Eight years ago, he separated the bulbs and mailed me a few of my own. I planted them in a sunny corner by the garage and waited for flowers.
Each Spring, the bulbs would put forth green leaves, but I never got flowers. I enjoyed the greenery and kept fertilizing them, in the hopes that flowers would someday emerge. A few week’s back, I was checking the garden and I realized that this year there were iris flower stems among the green leaves.
This week’s sunlight and warmth brought more growth. This morning, I have pretty purple irises to admire.
They are lovely, of course, and made lovelier to me because of their history. I garden because my father gardens. He gardens because his grandparents taught him to love stirring the soil and making things grow. This history of gardening is important to me, a reminder of things that transcend time. These flowers remind me of gardeners that came before me; they are witness to the gardens my family grew. They make Spring that much sweeter for the reminder.
That’s happy!
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