“My Favorite,” I said.
“I can see why,” the banker said.
“No, I’ve named it My Favorite. It’s one of my unique varieties.” They each asked for starts. They’d driven from Seattle and Lynnwood and surrounding areas and had read about the garden from a piece of Cornelia’s that was rerun in the Seattle Times.
“There is much interest in lilacs in the Seattle area,” the artist told me. He painted flowers, he said, and lush gardens too. He was soft spoken and walked through the garden with his hands clasped behind his back.
“I looked for your varieties in Cooley’s catalog,” the banker said. “Didn’t find any there. How come? Don’t you have several unique cultivars?”
“About fourteen now.” We sat on the porch, drinking lemonade. Frank rejoined us, letting Delia give the current cluster of visitors their tours. Lizzie would have come, but her youngest son, Roland, born the previous July, had the croup, and with the cool breeze, she’d decided to stay home. Delia would give the update on Lizzie’s rhododendrons and their showy blossoms. Even Fritz led a group of young women along the paths. He knew as much about the lilacs as the rest of us. Peals of laughter bubbled up from his charges like steam from a teapot. He was having too much fun, I thought. I wasn’t sure if he was the best tour guide. Might have to change that for next year.
Cranes warbled in the distance, and I missed not being able to see those lanky gray birds with the railroad grade so high, but as Frank often said, that was progress. What I was seeing with Fritz was progress too, but I wasn’t sure I liked it.
“You really ought to think about letting a couple of the nurseries distribute them.” The banker’s determined voice brought me back to the moment.
“I like meeting the people who get my starts.”
“True enough,” the banker said. He had a big mustache and an even bigger belly. Corpulent, Martha would say if she were here. “But others are deprived of the beauty you’ve designed. Think of how many more might enjoy the fruit of your labor. Hundreds may come here, but thousands would buy from the catalog.”
“I’ve been trying to get her to do that for years,” Frank said.
“Think of it as … diversifying. You have this operation, your garden right here where people come, leave you donations as I see it, and you get the pleasure of seeing who will take one of your little pets home.”
My face felt warm. I did think of the flowers as my pets, loved them like I loved each Bobby and my cats.
“You have your goal for that operation.”
“Bigger blooms, hardier stalks, richer color, and finer fragrance.” I repeated the phrase often enough on my garden tours.
“Exactly. Then you have your outreach division, where you sell starts to nurseries, and they develop them a few years and market them as shrubs to an even wider range of enthusiasts. They might never meet you, but they’d likely be pleased to tell their friends they had a Klager lilac.”
“One day, when you traveled to Seattle or back east, you could walk into a garden and see your lilac there, planted by someone else but that your hands had a part in.” This was the chief of police speaking now.
“This could be a very anomalous time for you,” the artist said, bowing slightly each time he spoke.
I wondered what Martha would have said about the word anomalous. That did mean exceptional, and in my plant world meant something out of the order of things, just what I was always looking for, hoping the next anomaly would take me closer to my longed for twelve petals.
The undertaker hadn’t said much of anything, but he nodded now and rose to collect a few more specimens from the tubs where we’d cut starts before Lilac Day began. He returned and said, “You’ve given me an idea, George.” He nodded to the banker. “I think I’ll start these and give one to each family at the time of our service to them, as a sort of memorial to their loved one. My work”—he turned to me—“it’s filled with stories told when people are grief stricken and weakened by loss. They let me into their lives in the most intimate ways, dressing and caring for their loved one, something that used to be done at home.” I thought of Martha and how we’d bathed her body and dressed her, choosing the right dress, weeping as I gently brushed her cheeks, prayed over her, all acts of reverence honoring her life. “So giving them a plant that they could put in the ground as a remembrance, I think that would be a good thing, and a reverent thing to do. I do love the cut flowers,” he said. “But these will last past the present misery.”
After they left I told Frank, “I think it is time to talk to a couple of nursery people. Cooley’s catalog is in Portland. You could sell the cows that way and not have to work so hard.”
“Those cows are my pets,” Frank said. “But it would be good to think ahead, getting ourselves a nest egg so we could hire help. What with the war in Europe, if we get into it, Fritz might have to go.”
“Oh no. I don’t like thinking of that.”
“Don’t, then. Think of all those people who’ll find your lilacs in the catalog. Get the names of your varieties registered, Huldie. Then we’ll take a drive to Cooley’s and see what they say.”
We rocked away the evening, quietly together, thinking. It was more the undertaker’s view of things than the banker’s that had me considering selling my pets, allowing others to nurture them and list them for sale. I wanted people to experience the fruit of my labor, and I guess it was selfish of me in a way to keep them to myself, only letting them go when I could see to whom they went. Lilacs didn’t really belong to anyone, even if they had a registered name with Klager preceding each one. They were gifts meant to grow in gardens all around the country—however they got into the new caretaker’s hand.
“We’d better talk with Roy too,” I said to Frank as I fixed our supper. “I promised him first dibs to sell them at his store. We ought to keep it in the family as much as we can.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
CORNELIA
1922
Cornelia held it in her hand as though it was a child she’d given birth to. Well, she had. She’d had all the labor pains of researching, writing, getting permissions, illustrating several plates herself, locating other artists for the additional ones, finding a publisher, then having the war change everything. She had to locate a second publisher, then a third (the second having gone out of business), until finally, in 1922, everything came together, and she had the book of her heart. The publisher had used one of Laura Hetzer’s sketches, which gave Cornelia great joy. Cornelia had also located a fine artist, Yasuo Kuniyoshi, at the Art Students League of New York. He’d once lived in Seattle, and of all the artists whose work she looked at in the league’s files, his were the best for her baby, her book.
American Arboretums: The Stories of America’s Beloved Botanical Laboratories. By Cornelia Givens. She didn’t really like the subtitle, or at least the word laboratories, but that is what distinguished an arboretum from any other garden. It was a place to study scientifically and educate others, as well as care for unique clusters of plantings in perpetuity, from tall trees to the tiniest violet.
She called out to George Bath, her husband. They’d been married two years, and he’d supported her journey to finish this tome from the very beginning, even suggesting that she maintain her maiden name on the cover, since the work had been done while she was single, supporting herself and her mother until her mother’s death three years previous. She and George met while Cornelia volunteered at a hospital in New York City, where so many were being treated for the flu that swept away thousands. George Bath was a physician, and while Cornelia was no nurse, she was a faithful volunteer who comforted both families and patients, writing letters for them, reading poems she wrote.
“The Tireless Miss Givens” George called her. She reminded him that he was as tireless as she. He’d invited her for coffee; she accepted. They shared stories, a touch, a tender kiss, and before long he’d proposed. She accepted, surprised beyond words to be marrying at forty-two.
George held the book, his pleasure in his wife’s accomplishments evidenced by the wide grin on his handsome face.
“It’s a beauty.” He kissed her nose. “And so are you.”
Cornelia had continued to write articles. When she felt she had gained proficiency, she chose arboretums as subjects, hoping the book would urge more people to make spaces for education and beauty for the rest of the world to experience. For the rest of the world, she thought. That would make a good title for a book about gardens.
The only hesitation she’d had was knowing that if she wrote about specific arboretums in America, she could not include Hulda Klager’s lilac garden, and yet it was that woman and her garden that had pointed her in this direction. The possibility of leaving her out was so distressing to Cornelia that she’d taken the train back from New York for a Lilac Day in 1920. She had other business in Portland but drove up to Woodland just to talk with Hulda.
“It looks like Horace Liveright is going to publish my first book,” Cornelia told her. They were in the shed, wearing large aprons as Hulda repotted one last geranium. It would sit on the porch steps blooming red along with a flower for each step already set there. “They usually publish classics, so this is a departure.”
“Ja, that’s good. You’ve worked so hard on that. Hand me that pot there, would you? Danke.”
“I have, it’s true.” Cornelia handed her the clay pot. “And I think it will open the eyes of people to know how many arboretums there are in this country and how, despite income tax and wars—”
“Isn’t that increased tax something?” Hulda stopped, gloved hands holding another geranium. “I can’t imagine what Congress was thinking to pass that revenue act.”
“It will help the local conservation agencies do their work and the new National Park Service,” Cornelia said. “And it will fund new laws meant to assist widows with children. Families aren’t always able to take care of each other on their own.”
Hulda sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Let’s go in and sit a spell, ja?” Cornelia thought she might be slowing down but wasn’t sure how old Hulda was. She sounded more German than previously, age nurturing words of her youth. They walked inside as Hulda continued to talk. “We farmers taxed ourselves, to begin levee construction along the east bank of the Lewis. They’ve already got plans for a Planter’s Day in June, when we won’t have to wait to plant until the river recedes. Guess we have to think of those taxes as bounty counting. If we didn’t have money, we couldn’t pay the taxes; so God’s been good.”
Cornelia was pleased that they were the kind of friends who could disagree about a thing but still respect each other and enjoy their conversations. “You were saying, before I had to speak my piece.” Hulda took Haviland china cups out.
“I only hope that the book will remind people of the importance of science and education, about botany and horticulture. I want people to see how those who can are putting their wealth into these laboratories of greenery, despite taxes and earthquakes and disease.”
“We’re very proud of you, Cornelia, very proud.”
“There is something I need to tell you, though.” Cornelia stared at her cup. “It’s one of the reasons I came to see you.”
Hulda turned to look at her. “I thought it was because you missed my charming disposition.” She grinned. “Didn’t you come to tell me stories about your new husband?”
“After supper we can talk about him,” Cornelia said. “He is worthy of the time. No, I came because my book is about arboretums.”
“So you told me.”
“As a result, I’m not able to highlight your garden in this book.”
“Oh, that’s fine.” Hulda continued to lift tea leaves from a tin pot. “Mine is just a flower garden, nothing scientific about it at all.”
Cornelia detected no disappointment, no feigned acceptance. Hulda really didn’t mind.
“Don’t diminish your work, Hulda. It is both scientific and educational. Just not at the scale that I cover in my book. Arboretums are usually created by wealthy donors or through endowments to universities given by passionate people, like you, passionate about plants. But they’re large, acres and acres, and the recipients have the ability to maintain them. You do it all yourselves here, and that’s so admirable and worthy of recording and sharing too. I’ve felt so torn about not including Hulda Klager’s lilacs.”
Hulda turned to her. “You’ve given far more than we deserve. Lilac Day has become Lilac Days, and we had dozens of cars here last May, because of you. Even the city plans events now around lilac blooming time. I doubt there would have been such wide interest in my flowers without your articles and people visiting to see my newest cultivars.”
“How many are you up to?”
“Over one hundred. Imagine.” Hulda poured hot water from the stove reservoir through the tea leaves, the scent of mint rising with refreshment. “But you worry nothing about having to leave our garden out of your book. I hope it does real well for you.” Hulda set the steaming tea in front of Cornelia. “You have one of my varieties in your New York garden, don’t you?” Cornelia nodded. “I’ll send another back with you. In honor of your book’s publishing. You just keep them alive, and give a few starts away now and again; that’s all the thanks I need.”
Cornelia rose and hugged the older woman. “Thank you.” She felt the smoothness of Hulda’s cheek and the pervasive scent of lilac that defined Hulda Klager.
That evening they did speak of Cornelia’s husband, and Cornelia told her of their brief courtship and still-romantic life together. “Out of that terrible epidemic, love bloomed,” Cornelia said.
“My Frank has a romantic streak in him too. Every now and then he puts dahlias in a vase and sets it in the privy.”
Cornelia laughed. “The two of you. You have quite a time together.”
“That we do. Or as Frank would say, ‘I submit,’ we do.”
“I lost my sister and her husband, the same day in 1917,” Hulda said, getting serious. “Right after we survived the flood of ’17. I often wondered if it was early flu, but the doctors said it was gangrene. They each must have had a terrible infection. Don’t know where they got it. Maybe cleaning up after the flood, getting cuts and ignoring them. Amelia wasn’t one to go to a doctor. She brought me the Harwood book all those years ago that got me out of bed.” Hulda sighed. “I guess it’s good they didn’t have to suffer along without each other, both dying on the same day like that.” She sat quiet for a time before adding, “I miss her. There’s something awful about losing a sister, no matter what the age.”
Cornelia thought of her own sister. She’d lost touch, something she needed to remedy.
Frank finished reading his newspaper and joined them briefly in the parlor, talking about cheese and milk prices, catching up on Cornelia’s life. Cornelia thought his color was off, his face as pale as a mushroom. But he bantered and opined as usual. He said his good night, and Fritz asked if Cornelia might like an escort back to the hotel. Cornelia accepted, and the two of them chatted like old friends as he walked with her. Hulda’s love of plants had brought them together, and her generosity of knowledge and time had melded Cornelia into this fabric of family. Cornelia wished the same for the rest of the world. For the Rest of the World. That’s exactly what a garden was, and Hulda’s was the finest.
THIRTY-NINE
LILAC STARTS
Hulda, 1922–1930
The years passed like a good story, swiftly, full of momentum and change, characters coming in to warm us, set us straight, drifting in and out of our lives but knowing they were part of the story line, hoping it wouldn’t end but taking us there anyway.
Irvina blossomed, Clara close behind. Lizzie’s boys had already discovered their love of flowers, and they liked playing sword fights, while I tried to keep them from trampling my heather or holly. “You stop that now,” I had to tell them more than once. “Don’t you get into my plantings!” They’d simmer down,
and then before I knew it, they’d be chasing and laughing. So long as they didn’t wreck my pets, I might let them race around for a minute or two, then send them to the field or the barn or into the house. Still, I liked having them around. Children bring vigor to a soul, and I needed that to tend the ever-growing acreage.
The railroad interrupted conversations as it rolled through, sometimes rattling the china in the cabinet and once knocking the Lifebuoy soap off the side of the tub. I chipped a tooth crunching down on a piece of popped corn, wishing I’d added sugar and milk the way the Indians used to eat it. My girls wanted me to go to the dentist, but so long as I could still chew, I didn’t see the bother.
My brother still lived next-door, and their Elma, now twenty-four, worked for Dr. Hoffman in his office, but she came by on a weekend to work with me in the garden. Amelia and Solomon’s children were pretty well grown when their parents died, but it was still a shock, and I found myself visiting with them in Vancouver, bringing them fresh bouquets of blooms to help the grieving.
Cornelia Givens Bath came to visit a couple of years back, wearing a skirt just below her knees. In public! I was surprised but said not a word. She’s from New York now, and they do things differently there. We hear from Ruth occasionally. She’s married and already has two active boys, settled down in Baltimore. She’s giving lessons, and her husband teaches at the Peabody Institute. She always reports on her lilacs and says she’s given away dozens of starts and occasionally visits the Snyder garden to check on theirs, even though the couple doesn’t live there anymore.
Fritz has been teaching our new Bobby tricks. He dances and twirls and puts his head on his paws like he’s praying. Silly thing, but Fritz likes working with him, and the shepherd in the dog needs to keep busy, or he’ll herd the chickens and geese whether they want to be herded or not. Frank’s got him working with the cows down on the Bottoms during the day, but that dog doesn’t seem to need rest and will chase the cats in the evening, if we don’t give him things to do.