Forsythia Follies
Regardless of where I have hung my hat, the sight of blooming forsythia warms my heart every spring. Roots in rural Pennsylvania germinated my love of the perfume of rich, pregnant earth coupled with the eye candy of sunny yellow flowers brave enough to promise warmer days.
My mother meticulously shaped two of these large bushes, one at each corner of our childhood home. I can still see her, after a long day at working and weather permitting, grabbing the clippers and heading outside. A requisite cigarette dangling at one corner of her mouth and large 1970s sunglasses shielding her eyes, she focused on painstaking spherical perfection. There was little doubt that pruning was Mom’s attempt to exert some shrub control as well as a practice in self-preservation. Hating to weed, we three boisterous kids steered clear of those planting beds, leaving her blissfully alone to do her bidding. Clearly beyond our youthful capability, Mom’s attention to detail rewarded us with a stunning annual display as soon as the snow melted.
Years later, amid the somber hue of a rainy spring day in another northern state, my own small family walked through an open house for a potential next home. Visible from one of the bay windows, a large forsythia patch on the property had burst into untamed golden glory, immediately warming the day’s gloom. This sentimental seasonal finery was the final perk that signaled I had indeed found “home.”
After settling into our new digs, I would pour a glass of wine in the evenings and wander about the new acreage, taking in the flora and fauna while mentally drafting task lists. The once beautiful spring forsythia patch was at the top of my list. Faded and overgrown, this tightly snarled network of aging limbs was now a daunting fifteen-foot wide umbrella of trepidation — its location over our septic system suspiciously pointing to its proliferative growth.
But before I could fashion its new coiffure, life got in the way as my mother experienced an unfortunate gallbladder attack during a calendar slot previously devoted to landscaping. The hellish battery of tests and surgery, along with Mom’s deeply rooted (and far from silent) martyrdom, was exasperating. Despite her repetitive verbal desire to “not be a burden,” the limits of my tolerance soon demanded a therapeutic outlet. Just as Mom had coped years ago by tending to her beloved bushes, I now picked up bigger guns — loppers and a chainsaw. Staring down my wary husband and growling “It’s time!” I headed out in search of combat and solace. My convalescing mom sat on the deck and watched my progress. Shrouded in a blanket and ironically resembling the Grim Reaper, she would occasionally raise a crooked thumb in support, helping assuage my anger at both her and what had become an eyesore in the yard. After several intensely cathartic and scratchy hours, I successfully whittled down the chaotic domed thicket to a central matriarch and circle of shrubbery offspring.
The original owner of the house — who lived next door — strolled over to admire my work. When I lamented that I had possibly killed the yellow beast; she offered a thoughtful “I think you did it a favor,” and confessed that they would mow it to the ground on a somewhat regular basis for a reboot. As to my question about the best time of year for pruning, she simply replied, “Anytime you have the clippers in your hand.” My mother had certainly been in violent agreement with that.
Over the next several years, this aggressive, fickle child of Mother Nature defied all my attempts at proper care and staunchly refused to open out. Country drives offering up endless vistas of the lush, warm growth in all its wild glory, taunted me. I felt utterly defeated — not to mention lonely — as Mom had passed away and I was now without a proper tutor for my less-than-green thumb. Though conventional measures were clearly failing me, and trying to educate myself more formally on Forsythia Europaea only led to more confusion, I continued my evening visits, wine glass in hand, hoping to coax its leafy affection toward efflorescence.
Fed up, and finally throwing caution to the wind, with thoughts of both Mom and my neighbor, I proceeded to sever the umbilical roots of each verdant progeny. Like a human, Mother Forsythia had sacrificed her own energy for her kids; it was high time to enable her mature horticultural second act. Rewarded this spring with a slightly flowering spectacle, I cannot help but think of my younger days and my mother. I continue to saunter, sip, and admire those few lemony flourishes as the days begin to warm. And now I practice the gratitude, patience, and mindfulness that come with nurturing something and savoring its associated sweat equity.
Like Mother Nature’s brood, my own kids have sometimes stubbornly refused to follow directions, ignored me, leached a good bit of my sanity, or required frequent tweaking, only to blossom when least expected. And regardless of how plentifully, when any of us blooms, it is always beautiful.
