I never had the privilege of meeting my mom’s mom, Grandma Livonia. She died when my mother was 21. Yet somehow I know her. Perhaps it is because of all of the stories that I have heard, both happy and sad. Perhaps I recognize her in my mind from seeing pictures of her fragile, graceful beauty. Maybe she lives on in me.

We are gardeners, my grandma, mother and I. One of my mother’s best memories of her was seeing her outside of the billowing curtained windows digging, planting, and humming. I have taken a cutting of Grandma’s violets (grandma’s yard, to mom’s yard, to mine) and planted them in every one of my cross-country gardens. I thought all was lost when in my current garden as we were readying the yard for my daughters wedding, a helper plucked them from the soil thinking the green leaves were weeds. Yes I wept. But just as our loved ones may be gone but not forgotten, these beautiful violets sprang up once again. Phew and yippee! Love from her garden to mine! Now I picture my grandma, together with my mom, creating the most beautiful gardens in heaven; possibly with billowy chiffon curtains, but certainly humming. Interestingly I have never felt cheated having never met grandma Livonia. I am sure that is because through those violets in my garden I feel as if I already have…