Z is for Zinnias
Lucky Indiana, to have had the zinnia as their state flower from 1931 to 1957. The fine people of Indiana evidently lost their minds in 1957, discarding the zinnia for the peony. I can’t complain too much because I too celebrate the peony (it’s the only thing in my yard I haven’t killed, though I’ve come very very close), but the zinnia–ah. My favorites–peonies, Icelandic poppies, gerbers, cosmos, too. The hot colors and denseness get me every time.
Tell you what, let’s all plant bright hot vivid zinnias in memory of those lost on September 11–for Zoe and her sister Dana who died when American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon–and for all the many innocent others who woke up that morning, ate waffles and soy sausage in their jammies, read the newspaper on the porch, got dressed, left their homes, looked up into a blue, blue sky, and smiled at the sheer beauty of the day, not knowing–how could they? how could we?–that it was their last such morning and our last with them here to cheer us and anger us and take too long in the bathroom and snore too loud and hug us. If we plant zinnias, they will bloom and cheer us. And if we imbue those sturdy stems with meaning and with memory, they will also remind us.
Where were you on 9/11? It hardly matters, because this isn’t your day or my day, is it? It is theirs. We will own it later, telling our grandchildren about the moments of that day while they fidget to go out and play since you can’t know–really–unless you lived it, but for now, let’s resist the urge to turn it into our story.
Let’s plant today, instead, for winter’s promises. We, all of us, want to believe the seed catalogs.
Winter Promises
eggplants glossy as waxed fenders,
purple neon flawless glistening
peppers, pole beans fecund and fast
growing as Jack’s Viagra-sped stalk,
big as truck tire zinnias that mildew
will never wilt, roses weighing down
a bush never touched by black spot,
brave little fruit trees shouldering up
their spotless ornaments of glass fruit:
I lie on the couch under a blanket
of seed catalogs ordering far
too much. Sleet slides down
the windows, a wind edged
with ice knifes through every crack.
Lie to me, sweet garden-mongers:
I want to believe every promise,
to trust in five pound tomatoes
and dahlias brighter than the sun
that was eaten by frost last week.
-Marge Piercy
And so, kind reader, our journey through the Alphabet–the A-Z alphabet anyway–has come to its logical conclusion. There was an inevitability about it ending, wasn’t there? Begun to get me writing and thinking again, it has. Perhaps I’ll continue, learning the alphabet backwards as Ellouise’s sister Lynda did with great tenacity in the second grade. After all, there are so many fine words I didn’t get to explore: zwischenraum, for one, the spaces in-between that I love so much. And Koala! Yarrow! So, beware, we might go backwards. We might learn another alphabet! We might inventory numbers or root vegetables or tiny rivers! Who knows?
An "Inventory your A-Z" compilation is in the works, to gather all the essays from this series. I’m doing it as a gift for Dan, since he asked so nicely, and others will be able to download it as well. I’ll send a sign when it’s ready…
Related posts: Always stay with your vehicle, Teach fear to heel
Last year this time: Eat on a door
The year before last this time: Fund your own revolution
[photo from my trip with David and Lora to the West Seattle Farmer’s Market one beautiful Sunday when the peaches had come in, the kind of peaches you have to eat in the shower because they are so juicy, right Lora?]
