There is still a month to go before autumn officially
arrives but one sign of the season is already here: the fall
chrysanthemum. Baskets of this popular
flower in all the reds, burgundies and golds of fall are on display in grocery
stores and nurseries. The sight of these flowers accompanies a growing chill in
the air, and memories ride in on their heady scent.
I bought a basket of fall chrysanthemums for the front step
of my little bungalow on Cambridge Court in Kemptville twenty-six years ago, as
I organized things before heading to the Grace Hospital in Ottawa to give birth
to my third child. My mother and sister were coming to look after my other two
daughters, I knew other visitors would be coming to see the new baby upon our
return from the hospital and I wanted the house to look nice. The tiny female
who came into the world that week is a powerful force: my end-of-summer,
setting sun, full moon in the night sky Leo the Lioness. Buckets of joyous
full-bloom chrysanthemums celebrate her birthday every year.
Twelve years ago I bought huge potted arrangements of
chrysanthemums in every colour for our garden wedding. They stood on either
side of the homemade wooden altar as the backdrop to our vows, where I promised
not to take over the kitchen and the Farmer promised not to take over the
couch. After dinner we moved the biggest pots of flowers I have ever seen off
the dance floor to make room so I could dance with my father, who was battling
cancer. I didn’t know then that it would be our very last dance. But perhaps he
did. Maybe that is why, after walking me down the aisle and giving a short
speech at dinner he went home and changed out of his suit and had a short nap
to regain his strength. When I think of that day I hear Chantal Kreviazuk
singing, “Feels like home to me…feels like I’m all the way back where I
belong…” I can feel his hand on the small of my back, guiding me around the
floor.
For the first ten
years of our marriage I bought pots of chrysanthemums to decorate the farm for
our annual end-of-summer party. Every year at the end of August the Farmer
would build a dance floor out of 2 by 4’s and plywood and lay it down in the
yard in front of the barn. Our musician friends set up lights and speakers and
we were treated to performances by many of our daughters’ talented friends as
we danced under the stars and chatted by the bonfire. On our record year I
think we had 80 people in attendance. Many of them pitched tents so they could
sleep over and enjoy a swim and brunch the next day. It was our own little
Woodstock. We have been too busy to host our farm party in recent years but
something tells me they will make a return in the near future.
Chrysanthemums are hardy, so they are usually still in full
bloom by October, when we host about 40 family members for Thanksgiving. I
hollow out small pumpkins and stuff them with fresh-cut bouquets as
centrepieces for the half dozen tables we will set up around the yard. We haul
the sunroom furniture out onto the back porch and our guests stay long into the
evening, sipping coffee as the sun sets. We no longer need bug repellent in the
evening; just a warm blanket to ward off the autumn chill.
Right about the time I am filling the car with chrysanthemums,
the Farmer is filling his trailer with crates of fat, clucking chickens. By the
time this column is in print (August 22), we will have a few dozen meat birds for
sale. We need some for our own freezers, as we host close to 20 people for family
dinner every Sunday, but we will have some available if you want to taste the
farm-fresh difference.
I’m off to the store now to see what kind of chrysanthemums
are on the market this year. I will choose burgundy-wine for me and golden
yellow for the Farmer. At the end of the season I will choose a few plants to
transfer to the flowerbed. If we get a good growing season they will come back
next year, three times as big.
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