Springtime Hello

My husband and I owned a home before the one we live in now. But to my father’s father, this is our first home. The other one was “nothing but air, really.”

It was a condo in a converted warehouse downtown. The first such condos in Kansas City. We were practically pioneers! But to the midwestern farmer, a large space without bedroom walls four stories in the air isn’t something you own, is it? I called all of my grandparents when we closed on the condo because I was so proud. I owned something, and this, I felt, was something they could embrace with me.

Three of them did. One, not so much. He would call it “my apartment” while he and my Grandma Ginny made themselves comfortable on our sofa. I would smile and begin to tell him all about condo rules and association dues, beautification committees and other details. He looked at me with incredible blue eyes like I was speaking in tongues.

I moved on.

My grandmother loved the loft. She loved everything about her grandchildren, whether it involved property ownership or not. She clearly got the idea of how a loft was less work and less maintenance – snow removal, house painting, etc. – and I think it excited her a little. They had worked hard all of their lives on their home and properties. Our loft was a new concept, not only to them but to many Americans, and she sparkled while asking all about it and what we planned to do.

When we purchased the house we live in now – the one with the yard work, the roof repairs, the exterior paint jobs – my grandfather practically rejoiced. This he could understand. We owned the actual dirt our house stood on. It was built of wood and stone and brick and it was solid. The neighbors weren’t on top of us or below us. They were a secure distance away.

My grandmother couldn’t wait to see the house. She waited until all our “pretties” were in place – which means she gave us about two weeks to get settled – and then they arrived. I was so terribly excited because they had agreed to spend the night – something they had never done at the loft, although my grandmother had wanted to. The lack of interior walls threw my grandpa for a loop.

In the back of the pick-up truck, under a cotton sheet and inside an old pickle bucket, was a collection of sticks with small green leaves on them stuck in crumbly mud. It was fall when they arrived, so these sticks were moving towards being done with the growing season. They looked sad and a wee bit pathetic. Until earlier that day, it had been part of a larger bush near their home in mid-Missouri.

My grandfather hauled them out and walked with me around “the property” to find a place to plant “this bush”. I was intrigued because what I saw in the bucket looked like what we had spent most of a week tearing out of our plot. Junk. Detritus. Weeds.

It wasn’t any of that. It was what my grandmother called a “bridal wreath bush. You’ll see what I mean next spring.”

I trusted them both in their ability to grow things. They were farmers, for goodness’ sake. So, I let my grandfather pick a spot in the far end of the back yard up in a raised bed. It made him happy. A little bit of run-off and a good spot not to “gather up too much late afternoon sun.”

And it has stayed there for almost twenty years, only getting bigger and needing no maintenance. My grandparents are gone now, but every spring I go out and tell them hello. This year, like every spring in the past, they were delighted to see me, and they put on quite a show.

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