When my mother enrolled me in a neighbor-lady’s modeling course, it was unlikely that her goal was to incubate my love of tulips.
I suppose I was gawky, as eleven year olds can be, so several Saturdays walking around with a book on my head, and a few hours listening to the finer points of make-up application, could not have hurt. The surprise, however, was that after completing the course, I found myself recruited as a model for the Albany Knickerbocker News float in the annual Tulip Festival Parade.
Wearing a newspaper minidress and hat, black hose and heels, I posed, smiled and waved as we rolled down State Street. Women dressed in Dutch costumes and clogs pushed brooms, scrubbing the road before us. Our New York town’s lengthy history, tracing back to the days of Henry Hudson, was being celebrated to the tune of a marching band. It was a history entwined in flowers.
The long upstate winters, a joy to children and a trial for adults, broke when the first hearty bulbs pushed their shoots through the snow. My mother had rows of tulips in front of our garden hedge. My favorites were the parrot tulips, with their frilled petals, and a taller variety, such a dark purple, they were almost black.
A few dozen bulbs have brightened my garden for decades, but last fall, after having three overgrown yews removed, I seized the opportunity to expand. After buying from picked-over stock a marvelous selection of eighty-eight tulip and ten hyacinth bulbs, I armed myself with stakes, string, paper and pen, and plotted the progression of blooms. Taking into account height, color and spacing needs, I then bent to the task of loosening soil compacted by years of mulching and bush pruning. Three days and many calories later, all were fertilized and installed.
Winter’s frigid winds now howl, yet the garden slumbers. Tulips nestle, at the ready to herald spring.
