SWEET PEAS. SALAD. AND A MOVIE

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 "Flowers don’t worry about how they’re going to bloom. They just open up and turn toward the light and that makes them beautiful.” – Jim Carrey

 Sweet Peas are like old friends to me

Bunny

 I keep a jar of them close by in the office.So I can bury my face in the blossoms.

 Mostly I keep them in the office to hide them from the cats. They like to pull out the flower stems, one by one.

 So I keep  the current jar close by me, so I can smell their heady scent. When the door is closed the scent is almost overpowering.

 Years ago, when I was growing up , my mother would have me  cut sweet peas for my violin teacher. Once, every summer,she always had a recital at one of the seniors' homes. Then we would go back to her place  for salad . Then she would take us to a dog movie.

 We didn't care for the dog movies. We liked cats.  But Frona loved dogs. She owned, at one time, five pomeranians.

 First we'd go to a Home to play.  And not just one piece. Three or four. In a really hot room. With the violin losing pitch every 15 minutes.My feet and hands sweating. 

 Those sweet peas we would bring for my teacher's table, would travel with us. I would stuff as many as I could into a mason jar. 

 Years before, my mother just wrapped the flowers in a wet hankerchief. But they didn't make it through the recital in the heat. They wilted. Then had to be thrown out.

 So finally, my mother relinquished her mason jars, and sweet peas had a lasting home every year. They would sit on the floor of the car between my feet while we trundled along to the Home. One year it was a new place. We got lost. My mother ended up on the highway, headed towards Nanaimo. Then she didn't want to turn around the car. Until a nice police officer stopped and led her back into town.

 We ended up an hour late for the recital. My  teacher was none too happy about that. As a result she had me play not just ONE mov't of  Mendelsson E Minor Concerto, but ALL the the mov'ts. And a little unaccompanied Bach for good measure. My mother held the jar of sweet peas, nodding her head in time to the music.

 Then we toddled back to my teacher's house. For salad . With hard little tomatoes and diced cucumbers. And some sort of wiggly custard. Every year. The same thing.

 And the sweet peas. Centre stage. Heady and sweet. And perfect. We would all take turns burying our faces in the bouquet.

 My  teacher always tried to engage us in philosophical discussions about the inner thoughts of the  violinist mind. Way above my head. My mother would poke at the dried up tomatoes and sniff the sweet peas instead.

 "Aren't  they lovely," she would say, and take a deep whiff. 

 When the last custard was disposed of, then it was time for the annual trek to the dog movie. Off we would go. Leaving the sweet peas in their jar on the table. The room rich with their scent.

 Secretly, I  enjoyed the movie. My mother and teacher  would doze off, periodically, in the theatre. Then wake up when the music thundered louder.  It was tradition.That was the last summer for the Seniors' home, salad and movie. Life moved on. There were no more jars of sweet peas to trundle over in a hot car. NO more custard.

 The  jars of sweet peas now sit all around me, and I'm reminded of those summers from time to time.And the sweet peas are still heady and wonderful. And somehow I wish that I could do it all again, just to see my mother and my teacher bury their noses in the amazing bouquet that graced our table , with the ocean beyond the window......

 Photographs 2019