Prized for its diverse hues, and wonderful ruffles, it’s the peppery kick which draw me in to this trumpet-shaped flower. A petunia bloom harkens me back to my paternal grandfather’s flower and vegetable gardens. The glorious flutes lined the wraparound covered porch which seemed to anchor my grandparents’ New Englander into the sloping street lined with sidewalks and houses. Snugged in an old porch chair, adults were free to imbibe in conversation, or unfold a newspaper, only pausing for a nap, a child’s question or to acknowledge a neighbor strolling by with their dog or a small bag of fresh-roasted peanuts from the mom and pop store down around the corner on Main Street.
People move freely about, in earnest preparation for patriotic events, like parades and family cookouts and commemorative ceremonies. The smell of paint cured on a porch railing, of oiled hinges on a screen door. Of pavement heating up, of sprinklers, and lawns newly clipped. Blueberry pie cooling on a windowsill and vanilla cupcakes decorated in festive frosting. The water can in my grandfather’s hand blessing the petunias flouncing in shades of scarlet, blue, and white, some bouncing proudly in variegated stripes.
The house is in aromatic swing, the place trimmed in petunia’d lace. Gramps had a garden down back. From the mint, tomatoes, and cucumbers he made relishes and jellies to accent the meals he and my grandmother made. Salt pork baked beans, sweet breads, and lamb and rice wrapped in cabbage, would infuse the house and these dishes were hard to refuse. When we arrived, the smell of a cotton red, white, and blue flag in the sun by the front entrance would greet us. In the kitchen, family members pitched in, potholders in hands, barking at us to slow down when we got underfoot, assigned us tasks in hopes we’d learn something. Later, the exciting scent of freedom in a stolen spent firecracker whizzing through a dewy evening, a balmy innovation of celebration.
The anticipation of coming together freely as a family, a holiday we kids had no real historic understanding of until later. Still, what permeated was something good and stable — we were fed, disciplined, loved and encouraged to try even when we failed, and there was a redolence of independence in return.
The founding fathers had dearly sought independence when England ruled from afar with brute impunity. As American parents, we must remember to teach our children the lessons of the past. The Fourth of July with its gunpowder display of fireworks fills the night air with a smoky mix of burning coal, saltpeter, and potassium nitrate accelerated by a lit match. Sulphuric oxide, a kind of pungent message that we must always stand up and protect our rights, the base of our nation’s sovereignty. With our children we can lift our eyes to the skies and whisper in their ears about life, liberty, and the right to property, the right to dignity. Teach your child why we come to celebrate Independence Day. Our forefathers and those who came before us sacrificed everything for our freedom which is always in flux.
As kids, we’d jaunt through the pantry and out onto the back porch, past where the laundered tablecloths were unpinned and spread onto tables on the lawn below. Vinegar and bananas, faint in our wake as the screen door slapped – down a flight of stairs, and out into the backyard where under a big pine the fragrance of its needles would envelop. As kids, we’d wave sparklers once it got dark.
A pat on my shoulder from my grandmother, emits the scent of her Jergen’s hand lotion. Kisses and claps from aunts and uncles ripple the air with perfume and aftershave. Aromas which represented daily life and dreams all rolled into one. My father smokes a cigarette and my grandfather lights his pipe after we have pie.
In a way, all the candles are wished upon right there in my grandparents’ summer backyard for the United States’ 245th birthday. A child aware that this is my home, who spares no imagination amongst adults who would protect, love and encourage, this freedom, encompasses us, but we must care for it and pass it on to our children. The adults we love say this in the way they act, and we sense it.
Today I water the petunias in their peppery whiffs and my wonderful grandfather, baptized decades back in his eighties, seems to whisper, “Freedom.”
