I picked a large bunch of lilacs and brought them in the house. The bold scent filled the kitchen. I love the strong smell they emit. Lilacs stir childhood memories of the overgrown bushes in the backyard. They were never trimmed or cut back, but allowed to grow and send up shots from their roots. Always profuse bloomers, the blooms begged to be pick picked. My mother kept a vase of freshly picked blossoms on the kitchen table, replacing them as they wilted and dropped their purple flowers.
Mom and her sister worried about the lilacs blooming too early in May and not being bright and new for Memorial Day. They had to be part of the bouquets that were assembled to take to the cemetery. Iris, peonies and snow balls were packed into buckets along with the lilacs. The metal buckets were filled with water so the mason jars could be filled when the flowers were arranged in them. Coat hangers were an import part of the equipment because they were bent and inserted in the jars and the opposite end was pushed into the ground to anchor the bottles.
Mom and Aunt Myrtle never missed a year even if the early blooming flowers were less than perfect. For them it was the carefully tended flowers from their own gardens that carried love not plastic wreaths or flowers. As a child I could sense the importance of this ritual. It was a shared duty they faithfully fulfilled. They took their bouquets to the cemetery rain or shine. Memorial Day could not be missed. I remember rain, wind, and cold and yet they carried on.
When I smell lilacs I remember buckets of colorful flowers, mason jars. metal coat hangers, and me in the backseat of the car. It is my own little bush that stirs these memories and reminds me of the lessons I was quietly taught by my two favorite women.
