I hate red geraniums. But my grandmother loved them.

I had the privilege of having grandparents who owned a beach house, a place as tangible in my mind as the old boards on the porch still are. The house was always a buzz with company, friends and family. Mémere would cook anything you desired; even the children's catch of the day off a bridge was boiled for the stray cats. Passers by would stop to chat. I suspect the commotion about the place is what attracted so much attention.

But I know now that something else always made the walkers and traffic snarled grumblers gaze toward the house as if being called by name. It was those red geraniums.

Back in those days, porches were rugged, built to take years of wear from people and the elements alike. The rails were topped with huge, wide boards that did double duty. They provided comfortable seating for those days when the company exceeded the eclectic collection of eight or so rocking chairs, and they also held the biggest window boxes I've ever seen.

Mémere wasn't the demure type who fancied pastel shades of pink. Oh, no. She chose her flowers like everything else she did. With gusto! Gimme the reds! She had the largest, most beautiful globes of geraniums you've ever seen.
 
Geraniums. They smell. Not always nice. They need picking and pruning and endless watering jobs Mémere often gave to me, though I know she was relinquishing those chores to teach me about growing things. Especially in a box, a plant dies if you don't love it. So, for my grandmother's sake I cared for her geraniums.

Mémere passed the love of gardening to my dad, who favored roses. He worked endless hours at hard, physical labor. I remember him coming home at night, not coming into the house until the lawn was cut. He had looked forward to mowing that lawn all day. In a welding shop with temperatures swelling well over 100 degrees, imagining mowing perfect swaths in a deep, green lawn was peace for him. Admiring each of his roses as he passed them on his mission, he felt calm and complete, having stolen the last ray of sunshine.

I created my first garden 35 years ago when I was 20, an herb garden the length of the house and three feet deep. It blossomed and overflowed that first summer, scenting the adjacent rooms with promises of delectable, spicy meals and calm for the senses. It led the next year to a small vegetable garden, and thus my habit grew. I canned and froze everything.

Then I moved and started a new garden, planning to downsize it. But the garden inevitably overproduced, and I, not a regular church goer, filled large baskets with my surplus, arrived late to leave the baskets in the vestibule, and stayed long enough to be among the last to leave. It was all gone before I retrieved my baskets.

Two years ago I moved again, and today I have another new yard and a new garden, mostly flowers this time, and filled with precious cuttings of plants shared by so many friends in years past. Again, I planned to downsize, but I joined two garden clubs and became a Master Gardener.

People garden for different reasons. Some for food, some for beauty, some for peace of mind, and some because a ghost calls them to remember.

As I planted my newest, tiny vegetable garden this year, I saw a doe on my hill behind the house and shook my fist at her. Daring not sample my vegetable seedlings, she diverted her attention to a nearby geranium.

Oh yes, a geranium.

Seems I can’t help myself. I have geraniums in planters all over the place. In shades of pink by the bistro table, hues of peach by the shade garden. They’re in orange tones by the potting shed, and spill off into the sun’s edge by the where red and yellow daylilies meet.

I've always been particular about color, creating arcs of color that blend from one to another about the spans of green lawn. I like to work with a color wheel in my head, lest I create a color “faux pas.”

A bed of perennials in my front yard features plum, violet, and grape tones, colors I carry over each year into a huge blue pot at the end of the brick walk. Generally, I fill the pot with lavender plants and others that bloom in soft lilacs tones, adding vinca for a draping effect.

But today I felt Mémere watching me with those piercing, robin’s egg blue eyes and a smirk that held a dare, egging me on. Thus, I made a huge faux pas. I bought the biggest, boldest red geranium I could find for that blue pot, laughing along with Mémere all the while.

She would be proud.

By: Marie Nickerson, Master Gardener