It’s hydrangea season in my neck of the suburbs. Around every corner, down every lane, you’ll surely find a lush curb of hydrangeas in shades of pink, purple, blue, and white. My Instagram feed is full of posting and boasting about prolific hedges of this lovely flora with bushes so heavy the flowers hit the floor. In comparison, my solo hydrangea plant is in an awkward yard spot, never fully landscaped, and may seem sad and out of place.
Looking at my hydrangeas, though, I see so much more.
The plant was a centerpiece on a luncheon table for my middle son’s Bar Mitzvah 15 years ago. It was the height of the 2009 financial crisis, and my husband’s job was at risk. My father-in-law was ill; I was waiting in line at the post office to purchase stamps for the invitations when I learned he had passed. It was not the time, nor did I have the inclination, to splash out on professional floral arrangements for a two-hour lunch.
Two of my dearest friends and design experts came to the rescue. Following our informal emergency meeting in the middle of our dead-end street to strategize, I purchased ten small purplish blue hydrangea plants, probably in six-inch containers. Together, the three of us removed them from the basic green plastic pots and wrapped each in burlap tied with a blue ribbon: a pretty enough centerpiece and a take-home gift for the first at each table to claim it. No one cared about the flowers on the table, least of all my son’s friends, who were more interested in playing sports and taking photos outside.
After the guests departed, one centerpiece remained. Destined for my backyard as a reminder of the day and how we managed, I didn’t have much hope for its future, as gardening isn’t my forte. I planted it (okay, I had the landscaper do the dirty work) near my deck and garage.
Somehow, it escaped my attention that the location lacked access to either of my outdoor water spigots, too far away to use a garden hose. When I remembered, I would repeatedly lug buckets of water to the plant, hoping to provide enough water and keeping my fingers crossed that sufficient sunlight would find it.
For years, the lonely hydrangea plant muddled through. Providing an annual bloom or few, mostly resembling a bush of sticks with some green leaves, it lived. As the seasons turned, the rare flower would fade with that fossilized wooden look, barely hanging around until someone thought to trim the bush back.
Recently, though, my hydrangea has begun to spawn more flowers, an increasing number each year, with this year presenting the most. Still perhaps scraggly compared to my neighbors’, this summer’s blooms are beautiful, even if not bountiful.
