When I was growing up, Nana, my grandmother on my father's side, raised African Violets.
Nana had a long and narrow sun room which overlooked a busy street in Atlantic City. During the day, she'd sit in her rocker and watch what she called "shady characters" spill into the street and dot the city like chicken pox on a child. Her English was limited to a few words as she only spoke her native Italian.
At night she could be found knitting in the dark. We'd follow the sound of her bone knitting needles up the steps which lead into the sun room. Her needles, which she held onto by tucking them up under her massive bosom, were round and flexible and clicked like a metronome. In the dark, by the light of the moon, her rocking silhouette kept the beat of her needles. And, along the windowsills were the shadows of her blooming violets. There were six giant windows eye-balling the pre-casino town; all of which held four to five violets in various stages of bloom and in a cacophony of colors. I never once saw Nana dote over her plants except to pour warm water, which had been steeped with egg-shells, deep into the soil. She never picked the blooms and she didn't have those fancy African Violet pots that are self-watering. She used, instead, an odd lot of ceramic containers, that today would probably bring in a pretty penny at an estate sale. She used her index finger as a barometer of dampness and a keen eye for turning them like sundials with the light of day.
I don't think there's ever been a time in my life when there wasn't an African Violet close by. In college, I had them on my windowsill when everyone else was growing other worldly plants. When I moved from New York to Florida, they traveled with me in an open box on the back seat. And now, I have several on my desk in my office and on the windowsill in my kitchen (some of which are in dire need of care).
I had an author who is a psychic visit me in my office one day. He immediately stopped at the door and said "Your grandmother is here, she's always here." It gave me the chills, and at the time, I didn't realize the connection between the violets and my Nana.
There's one violet in particular, pictured above, which is just phenomenal. This one grows perched on an antique dry-sink near a window in the dinning room. I've never given it egg-shell water, but it does have a special African Violet pot which is self-watering (when I remember to fill it up).
Today, this purple violet invited me to spring into Spring with its fullness, its life and vibrant color. Thanks, Nana. Here's to Spring, and here's to you.
