In early spring, I planted morning glory seeds. I’ve done that for a long time–except for the two years I lived in an apartment. I fell for those plants years ago when I saw the variety, Heavenly Blue that covered a fence, a hue of blue like none I’d ever seen. Eventually, I had a thriving plant that covered my bird feeder in the house where I raised my sons.

Mama used to come to visit there and we’d walk around my yard to see what I’d planted; we did the same at her house. When we visited her brother, Joe we talked about our gardens and I told him about my morning glories.

With a wry grin, he responded to my exuberance with, “Connie, you know morning glories are weeds, right?” Uncle Joe had gone to N.C. State and majored in crop science. He spent his career analyzing seeds for the FCX (Farmer’s Cooperative Exchange). I knew what he was talking about, remembering the wild vines that would pop up in our crops. Most of them were multi-colored; none of them were the stunning blue of my flowers. I found this wild one in the only open space near my townhouse, a field that I walk to when I want to remember our farm.

I like how these flowers open up in the morning light. Since I grew up on a farm, I’d always been a morning person–at first by force and later by choice. It was during the early hours that I felt the most energy, the most hopeful about the day that was before me. The flowers closed in the harsh heat of mid-day, and that was when I felt a slumping energy as the sun bleached out the earth.

Back in the mid-nineties, Mama was taking painting classes and showed a propensity for that new skill. She especially like oil painting and I was impressed by her ability. One year, she happened to ask me what I wanted for my birthday.

“I’d like a painting of morning glories,” I responded.

She looked surprised when I came up with a gift idea so fast, especially one so involved. I gave her a picture I’d clipped from a decorating magazine. On my birthday, I was delighted to receive her gift, especially since she actually put her name and the date in the corner; that was something she rarely did—probably because she thought it would be boastful! Now, it hangs proudly on my wall with “M Rosser ’96” in the bottom left corner.

When I planted the seeds in my patio garden of my townhouse, it was an act of saying This is my new home where I’m putting down roots. It felt like a thread of continuity with my life from years ago to these later years. The same vines that I first saw in the fields of our farm, and were later sown from seed packs around my bird feeder, and now by my back fence–will bring me delight.

I’d been intentional this year with planting the seeds–starting them in small peat pellets and then transferring them after the last frost. I set them out at the stated distance on the seed package once they’d sprouted. I’d tamped down the soil around them just like we did with all the things we planted when I was a girl. But then, after a couple of weeks in the ground, there was a big thunderstorm and the plants were mostly destroyed. It was before I put gravel in the patio and the entire area had rivulets of erosion running through the red clay soil.

Not to be deterred, I started all over with seeds placed in peat pellets. In the time since the thunderstorm, my brother-in-law, Winslow and I had spread gravel throughout the patio up to the flower beds. I’d made a place beneath the fence for the new morning glories. No longer could a heavy rain wash them away.

I waited for weeks, watching those plants come up and finally reach the netting that was anchored to the fence for them to climb. For a while, it felt like a slow process—watching those plants grow. I was reminded that we can’t force nature. I’d seen that over the years of growing up with fields that were planted in faith and were dependent on sun and rain; in my small ‘farming venture’ I knew that I had limited control.

I anticipated the summer when the blooms would burst forth. That time became like a touchstone, a point that would mark me being settled into my new home, a new phase of my life. I found myself thinking, When the morning glories bloom, I’ll . . . then I would fill in that blank. It was if, at some level, I was holding my breath until this thing I’d anticipated happened. Don’t we all have touchstones, points that will mark when we’ve ended a phase and started into a new one?

I kept watching as the foliage on my fence grew, spreading up the netting and onto the top of my fence. It was a healthy green with heart-shaped leaves and appeared to be a strong plant; but there were no blooms. I called Winslow and complained, and in his patient way, he told me he didn’t have any blooms yet, either. He’s a certified Master Gardener so I felt reassured.

Finally, last week, I came into my kitchen and looked out the patio door. My breath caught when I saw several blooms–both pink and a purple-blue peeking out. The blues weren’t the Heavenly Blue color of the past ones, maybe because of the soil, but they were still beautiful.

Now, I feel a sense of satisfaction that I’ve arrived at a place I’ve wanted to be. I spend the early mornings tending to my garden, pulling away dead foliage and pinching back heavy areas where the leaves block my view of the flowers. I think of one of my favorite hymns and sometimes say the words while doing my tasks:

“Morning by Morning

New Mercies I see.”

Best to You All as you nurture those gardens in your life that bring you joy.

Connie