In the spring I yearn for color. The grays tones chill me in winter and the dark contrast of the baren trees thrill me with their beauty against such a backdrop. Yet, as the season turns I look for the first touch of yellow to seep into the gray. It seems more dramatic than the burst of color of summer.
There is work and cost involved to enjoy the extra color. I agonize over the choice of each plant as I invision the textures and combinations in my mind. Hope swells as they are lifted out of their small home into the possibilities I imagine for each one. I tend them carefully at first.
After a few short months of watering, weeding and feeding the colors dull in my eyes and I itch for the gray to return. Still, when the last of it dies with the frost and the barren sticks are still in the ground I find it hard to pluck them out and completely remove the memory. As the pale greens and yellows drift down from the front tree they turn stiff and loose even their pale color. Over and over again the process repeats itself and still my emotions change with the change of color.
There is one flower that is different. It is the African violet. It was a splash of color at Grandma Fuhriman's home that never dimmed until she did. Without any reason except that I would become a Grandma Fuhriman I felt that I had to raise African violets. My first one was a gift that I cherished. I knew flowers needed light and I put it in the sun. It died.
I learned that African violets need indirect sun. The next one I got grew and its leaves were beautiful but it did not bloom. Why? I wondered, when I loved it so much and watered it and kept the sun from burning it did it not burst forth?
I know the secret now to African Violets and they bloom in my window sill in my kitchen. They have deep color, bloom constantly and require little care. They bloom when the gray surrounds the outside. They bloom when the heat threatens to distroy the plants outdoors. They bloom when the frost changes the color of the day overnight.
African violets.
