I write this on an early May morning. I’m looking out on a tapestry of fresh green in our garden: feathery leaves of astilbe, reddish stems of peony bushes, fan-shaped leaves of lady’s mantle, fiddleheads, and tiny pink buds on the spiky branches of the fairy roses. Why, I wonder, on the kind of spring day extolled by poets, am I feeling melancholy?
Then I remember. It’s the day before Mother’s Day. Memory tells me it’s also the week when the two huge Macoun apple trees that once stood in our yard displayed their spectacular pink blossoms. Doc Whitmore used to prune and feed those trees, and the branches rose far above the hedge and stretched deep into the yard.
My husband’s mother always stayed with us on Mother’s Day weekend, and my mother was often here as well. They both thrilled at the sight of the flowered canopy of those apple trees. We all did.
After lunch, we’d take turns pushing Hilary on a swing that hung from one of the tree’s outstretched limbs. Soft pink pedals would swirl down like confetti as she cried out, “Higher, higher, push me higher!” In the late afternoon, we’d drive our mothers down the lanes and along the streets of East Hampton, delighting them with the profusion of apple, crab apple, and cherry trees in their full glorious spring regalia.
Old age and Mother Nature have taken both of our mothers and the two apple trees. All these years later, here I am, missing my mother, my mother-in-law, and those two trees. So, this must be Mother’s Day melancholy.
To change my thinking, I go outside, where it’s still chilly, and walk around the garden, naming all the summer perennials coming back to life, studying their leaves to make sure I’ve described them correctly. When I come back inside, I’m reminded of a long-saved letter my grandmother wrote to my mother describing her Southampton spring garden. After searching through a box of old family correspondence, I find the letter and unfold it.
It’s dated May 3, 1954, and my grandmother’s looping handwriting is punctuated with dashes, underlines, and ampersands. She writes: “The whole place is in bloom — all Daddy’s plantings — the magnolia is in full bloom — the pear tree is out — the peach & plum trees are still in color — the apple trees and quince trees are coming & the wisteria. Still blooming all over are jonquils and daffodils. Narcissi & tulips come along each day — all colors. It’s a beautiful, gay sight all over.”
Written four months after my grandfather’s death, it continues: “Today is Daddy’s birthday. I’ve been working in his study & I hope he knows the new curtains are there for his birthday & bouquets of flowers. I took some bulbs he planted and transplanted them at the cemetery. They are doing beautifully.”
Rereading my grandmother’s letter extolling her spring garden while mourning the death of her husband lifts my spirits. I glance out at my garden with its clumps of green leaves getting ready to bring forth a cavalcade of blossoms and I let myself marvel at how Long Island’s sandy, loamy soil has nourished generations of my family, and I feel the melancholy melt away.
Cynthia Van Allen Schaffner is a decorative-arts historian who lives in East Hampton.