My Grandma Lupinacci was fond of roses and pansies. The garden behind our brick row house in Brooklyn greened up in spring with lush grass and big-faced pansies along the border. Grandma thought the pansy faces were friendly and she may have even talked to them. In tribute to my grandmother, for the past several years I’ve made it a point to plant pansies for her birthday on April 17. When I lived in South Dakota, this meant working in the cold wet soil, digging with spade, pitchfork- whatever it took to break up the icy clumps- and braving the sniggering of friends and neighbors who knew the weather better than I ever did. Nonetheless, there were always at least a few clumps of hardy little faces flanking the front steps by April 17. And despite subsequent snows and weeks of cold rain, they persisted well into the early weeks of summer.
The garden in our Denver apartment is nine stories off the ground and hangs precariously in window boxes off the edges of the balcony railing. Nonetheless, two weeks ago I purchased a flat of pansies and determined that Grandma would have her flowers. As soon as I brought the flat home, of course, the weather shifted from sunny and mild to a siege of classic Rocky Mountain spring: cold rain, snow, more rain and then last weekend’s blizzard. In between storms, I dug out the dried, twisted roots from last year’s perennials, amended the soil and got those pansies in one box at a time. For the first week, I wasn’t sure they would make it. The strong winds bit the edges of the leaves and sucked the moisture out of the petals. Overnight rain left icy crusts on the top of the soil. Most of the flowers shriveled, curling into little purple and yellow balls shaking on top of slender stems. Then last weekend’s weather laid a six inch cap of snow over them. I despaired.
The snow started to disappear on Sunday and by Monday I was able to check the state of the pansies. One box on a south facing balcony seemed completely revived by the harsh treatment. The leaves were fresh and green and there were over a dozen new little faces smiling up. The other two boxes on the south facing balcony are struggling, but this morning a half-dozen blooms are waving from re-emerging greens in each.
This is why I am stubborn about my pansy ritual. Pansies are ordinary flowers, maybe even a little old-fashioned. Grandma Lupinacci had the resilience of those little plants. When her mother died, Grandma left school to take care of her younger sisters and brother. She worked in a clothing factory as a seamstress. Her years were spent taking care of others: my grandfather, my mother and eventually her grandchildren. Life snowed on her quite a bit. Yet she continued to show up for all of us and smile. So I plant pansies in time for April 17, expecting that they will somehow endure. Planting anything, whether it’s flowers, ideas, appreciation or affection, takes an act of faith. It’s Earth Day. Plant something hopeful.
