KNOWING HOW TO WRITE ABOUT FAMILY is an acquired skill. I would venture to guess that no one does it right the first time and that to do so takes more practice than any other topic. What do I mean by doing it “right,” you might ask? I mean with the lightness of touch on the part of the writer so the reader is not so busy picking up unneeded details that he or she misses the themes that hold up the piece. Have I got good example of that? I do. Here is an excerpt from A Way to Garden: A Hands-On Primer for Every Season, written by my big sister, Margaret Roach. Read on for how to win a copy of her new, bestselling book. Written when we were somewhat younger, I’d offer here that the essay below has lost nothing of its power. See if you agree.
The Season of Sisterhood
by Margaret Roach
WE HAVE FOUND neutral ground, my sister and I. After three and a half decades, there is at last a place for us to be at peace, a new mother tongue that does not have so many angry phrases. We talk not of what has been, or might have been had someone or the other done something differently. We speak the language of flowers instead.
“I have an urgent garden question” is how her phone calls begin these days, and with those words we start rewriting the story of big sister-little sister, a tale that did not go so well the first time around.
No matter that she doesn’t always listen—she stored the dormant pot of calla lilies under the kitchen radiator, not exactly where I recommended, but they bloomed just swell the next year, anyhow. Her “urgent” questions are the opening lines of our revised first chapter of growing up together, and for that reason, I am grateful, and not so picky about such details.
When we were little, and the grandma she is named for grew them, my little sister crinkled her freckled nose and objected loudly to the stink of marigolds. Their gaudy color shone—positively gleamed—as if Grandma had planted them exactly to match the child’s orange hair. Young Marion was more inclined to horseplay than horticulture, however, her knees skinned and trousers shredded not from bending to the task of weeding but some far more hellish undertaking decidedly lacking in adult supervision. No time to stop and smell the flowers when you are playing cowboys.
Though not her namesake—perhaps they should have called me Lily, as hard as I tried to be demure—I never declined a chance to sit by Grandma Marion while she dried flowers from her garden in an old wooden press. From the lifeless bits she composed intricate arrangements that she later framed.
“Pressed-flower pictures,” we called them, proudly, but I remember that it was my room, not Marion’s, whose walls were covered in them. When she was not growing or pressing flowers, Grandma was painting pictures of them: a giant green ceramic vase of lilacs, a bowl of pansies, perhaps — and yes, of course, her precious marigolds.
Later, when Grandma was gone and growing pains were being felt full force at my end of the hallway, Marion was the sister who got bouquets from those who wished for her attention. Even then, Marion loved a rose—preferably long-stemmed and by the dozen—but I never actually thought that she would grow one. Apparently, I had something to learn about my sister, and about humility.
“Are those roses you gave me ramblers?” she asked not long ago, because they had clambered up and over this and that as rambler roses do. “You know, the ones you said were dead?”
The plants in question had arrived in time for an unseasonably early bout of high heat. Because I was not home, they had sat in their package in the sun, right where the UPS man left them. They stayed that way for days. Attempting a rescue on my return, I soaked them awhile in a bucket of water, and cut the cooked parts back, but they were too far gone to my impatient eye to bother with.
“I’ll take them,” said Marion, seeing the “dead” creatures lying on the lawn one day when she visited, and so she did. Within what seemed like no time, the dead plants had undergone a resurrection, and then proceeded quickly to ascend, too. By summer’s end, they were well up a trellis, where an enthusiastic tangle of vines—probably previous years’ casualties from my own garden—already grew lustily, as if to get back at me for my rejection.
There is a certain hazard to passing on your outcasts, whether to family or to friend. You may very likely have to face the plants again; do not forget this fact. Some, sent away because they were so aggressive, will quickly overtake their new home as they did your place. This does little to enhance the sense that the spirit of generosity was behind your gift.
Other plants were banished because their color proved too jarring; no spot for them could be found, no matter how hard you tried, so out they went, too. Such was the case with a dozen peach- and melon-colored daylilies, and I was glad to see them go.
I was not quite so glad to see them as a focal point at Marion’s, where somehow, magically, they fit right in as if custom-ordered for the spot.
It is not all having to grit teeth, of course, not all a test of one’s semi-good humor. I admit to an intense pleasure when she comes to pick my apples in fall, knowing I will hear about the pies and sauce for months to come. The image of them on her table is a good one, as if the act of sharing a harvest is deeply knit into the gardener’s soul. The summer I planted three-dozen tomato seedlings, her own crop was lost to some animal invasion. No matter, between us there was plenty. Fruits heal all wounds, even those as old as childhood.
For now, the phone keeps ringing with the questions, although I suspect she doesn’t really need the answers any more, and could even give a few herself. Admittedly, I will not try storing my callas inside the radiator cover, but there is a certain red poppy in her garden I’d like the name of, or better yet, some of its seeds.
We are actually beginning to look more alike as a consequence of this shared passion. They say that family traits are often revealed as the years go by, but that’s not it. In our case it is the matching scratches on the insides of our forearms I refer to, the marks of rose thorns, or the ankle-encircling scars from wasp nests run over with the mower. It is the red half-circles behind each neck where the sun found its way in to sear our skin. Even our gardens have taken on a certain similarity: she, too, plants pumpkins in her flower beds, as if this idiosyncrasy were a familial trait.
There is more to this gardening stuff than planting, I guess, more than the books offer in step-by-step detail. No wonder, then, that the language of gardening and the language of life have so many words in common: words like tend and cultivate, words like grow.
Author bio: Margaret Roach is the author of A Way to Garden: A Hands-On Primer for Every Season and several other books. You can find her at her website, where you can also listen to her weekly podcast. She and her book are the lead-off and wow-oh-wow review in The New York Times summer book list. That’s right: Number one.
HOW TO WIN A COPY OF THE BOOK
Did you love the author featured above? Did you learn something about how to write about family? Then you’ve got to read the book. And you can. I am giving away one copy, and all you have to do to win is leave a comment below about something you learned from the excerpt. I’ll draw winners at random (using the tool at random dot org) after entries close at midnight Monday, July 1, 2019. Unfortunately, only readers within the US domestic postal service can receive books.
Good luck!
__________
Want more on how to write about family? Come see me in one of my online memoir classes.
New ones start all the time.
Careen Strange says
This was a wonderful excerpt. It made me want to read the whole book to see what happened to these sisters as they were growing up, and how gardening supplied the healing balm.
Judith says
Loved this piece the first time I read it, and still do. For me, growth has come from releasing my expectations of how family should behave and just letting them be who they are.
Jan says
One thing I learn about memoir writing, through this lovely excerpt, is how a memoirist might share vignettes about a family member that show a bit about the relationship. In this example, the relationship between sisters is shown using “the language of flowers”–vignettes using the flower theme. The snippets, staying with the perspective of the memoirist, reveal the personality of each, not just one, sister. The reader can appreciate the uniquenesses of each sister and arrive at her own conclusions. It seems to be a gentle but truthful way to write about a family member. Admittedly, I’m just beginning to study memoir writing, so I’m sure circling back to this down the road, I’ll see more of what I missed.
MARK says
Lovely piece. It reminds of a saying a friend shared whenever a contentious topic came up. She’d say, “Let’s talk about flowers.”
Side note from the son of a proofreader. I believe there is a typo (in “”) below.
Admittedly, I will not try storing my callas inside the radiator cover, but there is a certain red poppy in her garden I’d like “them” name of, or better yet, some of its seeds.
marion says
Thank you. I fixed it. Deeply grateful.
Best,
Marion
Jan Duffy says
I love this excerpt and only hope that one day my prose will be as eloquent.
Jan Duffy
Anne Peterson says
Loved it, but I already knew I would. And it’s ironic, but I have just entered the world of gardening. The world I fought for years because after all, who wanted dirt underneath my nails. And yet, it seems without that, you don’t get to sit and see the flowers. I’ve even moved my desk a bit so I can gaze at the flowers in my backyard as I let my fingers peck out appropriate words.
Taryn says
Ooh that’s lovely—show, don’t tell can be hard when there’s so much to cover. Will be telling my old garden club friends about the book too!
Teri says
When if finished reading this excerpt, I overflowed with so many emotions. The most profound that filled my eyes with tears was the hope that welled up inside my soul for my own two daughters to one day find themselves, “to be at peace”,…and to create…” a new mother tongue that does not have so many angry phrases”.
Thank you for sharing this hopeful offering.
Denise says
I am not a gardener, but I have sisters. Many sisters. And your sister wrote a lovely piece.
Norah Wakula says
Lovely. What I learned is to come at it indirectly — to tell it slant. Not only with the gardening and growth metaphor/theme but also loved how the jealousy is never explicitly spelled out at the beginning. That you were the one named for the grandmother, who she so loved and with whom she had common purpose. Not only so, but that the marigolds shared the colour of your hair! I’m not about to write a specific essay about the troubles with my brother — the favoured one, but that family dynamic certainly has had an impact on my psyche and often raises it’s head and will continue to do so the longer I work on memoir.
Ruth Crates says
Writing about conflict between siblings… not having to be specific about what the conflicts actually were… because probably many of them are forgotten anyway. A lovely comparison between life and growing things. I would love to read this book.
Lorie Garver says
The entire excerpt is beautiful, but my favorite paragraph is the one near the end that starts, “We are actually beginning to look more alike as a consequence of this shared passion.” Such a lovely way to show the subtle solidarity of the sisters over time. I look forward to reading this book.
Jelane says
I love the way Margaret uses the images of the garden to demonstrate the emotions and feelings of the relationship. As a reader I have to slow down and sink into the writing.
Susan West Kurz says
I really enjoyed the coming together and going their own way as gardeners children and sisters. I just right sized and my gardening is contained to containers on my small Juliet balcony.
mary anne totten says
I wonder if it would be as easy to find common ground with a brother-sister relationship. Jealousy remains even after 60 years!!!
Melanie says
This was beautiful. Loving a garden myself (and having a strained relationship with my sister in childhood), this inspired all kinds of little love-of-life thoughts and images. As for writing about family, I can see that a “light hand” is completely sufficient, and lets the theme take center stage. Thanks!
Ann Forbes cooper says
Beautifully written. What talented sisters you are. Gives me pause for thought, as I’m writing about my own formerly bitter and explosive relationship with my own sister after our mother died of Alzheimer’s 9 years ago. Back then, I decided I never wanted to see her again. But time, humility and forgiveness can heal the worst of wounds. Now we are best friends. Flowers are such a wonderful metaphor for sibling relationships.
Sarah Geringer says
Since I have tricky and toxic family relationships, this book appeals to me. I also love gardening and want to become a Master Gardener someday. I’m adding the book to my Kindle list right now. Thank you for sharing the excerpt here.
Norma says
I loved this essay. My mother could resurrect any and all plants left for dead. Our small flower space was the nicest on the street because there were no two plants alike. People had to concentrate on each flower to discover its own beauty. Thank you for letting me reminisce for few minutes about a special childhood memory.
Gail Gaspar says
I wholly appreciate how your sister seeds the story and moves me forward as a reader. Seems effortless, the way water flows from a garden hose. She describes sisterly differences, applies metaphor with a soft touch and trusts me to draw my own conclusions about how two sisters heal, connect and growth as they go through life. Will be sharing with my book group.
Deborah Rudy says
I have 3 sisters of my own and life growing up in the 60’s was intense at times, especially during the school year. We all garden and share plants now, so it was heartwarming to read of your interaction with your own sister, whose blog (and magazine articles) I have followed for years! This excerpt shows a side of her I never knew before and now I MUST read this revised book! Thank you!