When I first heard that my mother's house had been sold, I cried. I wasn't sure exactly why I was crying. My mother is alive and well, and settled into her apartment in a beautiful senior community. I did not grow up in the house, so I never had an attachment to it. Truth be told, I never really loved it. Considering all of this, I thought my sadness was most likely related to it being the last place that I could connect my dad to.
My dad was an avid gardener. He would spend hours outside working in his garden. I can still picture him, in his favorite hat, out there happily from early morning to dinner time. He grew all kinds of things in his garden; tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, herbs. He had such a knack for it- I could never figure out how they grew so strong and healthy without being eaten by squirrels, chipmunks or bugs. He was so proud of his garden.
One of my fondest memories of him was when he would take my small children by the hand, and show them each of the items growing in his garden. When they were ripe enough, he would let them taste the fresh tomatoes off the vine. And, ALWAYS, he would tear off a mint leaf and let the kids smell the distinguishable fragrance. To this day, the smell of mint takes me back to those moments. The MINT...when I thought about leaving the mint behind growing in that garden, I sobbed. The new owners would have no idea of the history of that mint, and what it meant to my family.
You see, the mint in my father's garden was close to a hundred years old! It had been in my family for decades.
My grandfather first grew the mint in his garden in Amsterdam (NY). When my parents began their life together in the 50's, my father brought some of it to their home in Brooklyn. When they later relocated their family to Worcester (MA), some of my grandfather's cuttings were transplanted there. And finally, the mint brought with them from Worcester, landed in each of our Albany (NY) homes with this current house being the last location.
Mint is a perennial that grows like a weed, sometimes invasively. It is relatively easy to grow. Clippings of that very mint have been given to neighbors, family friends, and even replanted at my brother's former restaurant- where it continues to grow. Yet, for some reason, I could never get it to root at my own house. The soil in my yard is just not conducive to it. I had tried several times, but gave up thinking there would always be time to try again.
But now, there was no time left.
The house was sold in late winter, and so I waited until the last possible moment before the closing in the hopes that the mint would have sprouted in the early spring weather. Luckily, it was there , although sparsely. I pulled up as much of it as I could. I planted some in pots, and on the suggestion of a friend, placed the rest in water to see if it would root.
The planted mint has not done well. But, to my delight, a vast and healthy root system grew in the water, deeply intertwining the 6-7 shoots I had placed in the vase. They are so healthy and thriving now, that I am afraid to plant them!
A few weeks ago, my sister-in-law lost her mom, Santina. The priest who delivered the sermon is an old family friend.
He talked extensively about his connection to my dad, his history with my family- and later with my sister-in-law's family. He talked about the legacy of love and family that Santina had left behind. As he mentioned each one of Santina's grandchildren and great-grandchildren by name, it occurred to me that most of them were also MY parent's grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Here were two families, not at all connected in the past, but now deeply intertwined through current and future generations. A shared legacy of descendants so deeply entrenched that it can never be undone.
Not unlike the mint that I am so desperately trying to keep growing. The root system is so weaved together that I cannot separate the plants. I have on my kitchen windowsill, a plant that has germinated over and over again through the course of almost a century. The roots of this mint, from my grandfather's garden have been so strong, they have grown wherever life has taken them.
All too often, I think we cling so hard to the physical things left behind by those we love. It is our way of holding on to the them by having something tangible to keep. When those things are no longer there, we fear that it symbolizes letting those that we loved so deeply, go. However, it is not the things that are passed down which connect us to them, but the things that cultivate forward.
I realize now, what the mint had represented for me.I felt compelled to keep the plant growing, so that the spirit of my grandfather and father will continue on. I was losing the house, but I could still connect the mint to my dad. I know now, though, that in as much as I treasure that mint, I will never truly lose any piece of my father. Although it may be described as an heirloom, the mint is not the true legacy that he left behind. My father had five kids, ten grandchildren and (now) nine great-grandchildren that he was never able to meet.
I need only to look at the faces of all of them to know that my father's roots continue on. His roots are strong roots, and they will live for generations to come.
