It is a pleasure and an honor to accept your childhood. I am lucky to have literary and artistic memories to draw on for my art. Flowers were a big part of my home life. My mother, grandmother and aunts all had spectacular gardens. Lately, I have had time and space to reflect on those memories. Here are some ramblings that have come from that bit of space.
Ordinary Days I’ve come to savor the scent of flowers, especially forsythia. It reminds me of my mother’s garden on summer days. If not for rusted nails, shoes and socks found on wooden floors and mending bins. Old women with painted-on lips and settled cheekbones, smelled of tonic and lime. her nails dug in, as she sang a verse... “Oh, what a gal.” Her feathered hat tickled my cheek a little, but I wasn’t scared. Chicken salad with grapes and slivered almonds heaped on dinner rolls and bone china. The kind with pink and green blooms etched in white. Her lime-woolen suit smelled a little of moth balls and dusty rosewater. Cocktails, jazz riffs, separate tables/beds. I liked cummings, his verse seductive and short. My father’s books. His life. Stacks upon stacks of days, dust that clouds and settles on my own wrinkled pages. Susan Ward Trestrail,