Yellow Chrysanthemums, Source https://flickr, Author Joe Lewis,
(CC BY-SA 2.0 Generic)
“The Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden, and there He put the man whom He had formed” (Gen. 2: 8).
I am told that at age three I was fearless — routinely toddling along in determined search of adventure, several steps ahead of my grandmother.
Roses
One particular day our path took us past a neighbor’s rose garden. Evidently drawn to the blossoms, I entered the garden before my grandmother could stop me.
Entranced by the glorious shapes towering above me, I was only vaguely conscious of the heated discussion which ensued when the agitated neighbor rushed anxiously into her yard in defense of the roses.
At that moment, roses — in all shades from ivory to crimson — served to form one of my earliest recollections.
The Bronx
The Bronx is not widely known as a bucolic setting. A borough of New York City originally named for Dutch settler Jonas Bronck, the Bronx by the 1970s had become a nationally recognized symbol of crime, urban poverty and decay, renowned for burned out buildings.
I was unaware of this growing up. For me, the Bronx was host to a series of botanical marvels as cherished and familiar as family members.
A Peach Tree, An Apple Tree, and A Pear Tree
To begin with, there was the peach tree in the backyard, valiantly brandishing its fragile petals each spring.
Near that were the brilliant azalea bushes, and the apple tree whose graceful branches stretched past my second floor bedroom window. Many a daydream was lazily conceived in view of those branches. A stunted pear tree completed the picture.
Little did I realize that the peach, apple, and pear trees were mere shadows of the lush orchards my grandfather had to leave behind in Hungary.
The Neighbors’ Yards
In the next yard over to the right behind the house reigned a majestic oak, which in the summer months provided both shade and support for a hammock. I was permitted to use this hammock when on speaking terms with the boy next door — the hammock, a definite incentive to peaceful coexistence or, at any rate, the temporary cessation of hostilities.
The oak truly came into its own in the fall at which point it dropped bushels of acorns before entirely losing its leaves. The boy and I fought jealously over ownership of the fallen acorns while our fathers — from a rather different perspective — fought over the leaves
The yard to the rear and left of the house was occupied by our Italian neighbors’ carefully cultivated pepper, zucchini, and tomato plants. Though looked upon with disdain by my Hungarian grandmother, these always grew with abandon.
Adjacent to them, in the yard belonging to my great aunt, grew hydrangea bushes with the mysterious ability to change from pink to blue depending on whether pennies or nickels were buried at their base by attentive children.
Two stately fir trees and a holly bush marked the boundaries of our small front yard.
An Extraordinary Woman
My Spartan grandmother’s garden, however, dominated the yard. Her garden was one of the few indulgences Grandma allowed herself. That she could allow herself anything approaching indulgence — given the many hardships she had known — was a testament to her strength.
My grandmother was an extraordinary woman. In Hungary during World War II, Grandma had survived invasion first by German then Russian armies. At risk of her life, she disobeyed a Nazi directive and avoided shipment to Siberia.
Though aware that the possession of Hungarian documents was cause for execution under the Nazi regime, my grandmother retained the family’s Hungarian passports throughout the Nazi occupation.
When Russian invaders supplanted Nazi, she was able to produce these passports. From among some seventy-five persons, only my grandmother, my mother (then still a girl), and two or three others successfully avoided deportation to Siberia. Continue reading
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