The daughter of an old Hollywood family had a beautiful birthday tradition. She would call her mother to thank her for being her mother. What a wonderful idea!
I started a similar tradition, sending Momma flowers or a plant for my birthday. Today, it was a basket of gardenias.
Growing up, a gardenia bush stood outside my bedroom window. Momma would open all the windows each spring. It was that perfect time of year with cool nights and warm days. It made the house feel just right.
The gentle breeze and the intoxicating scent of flowers also helped mask the unmistakable smell from a neglected turtle bowl. The freshness made our arguments about it less frequent and tense.
In nearby Birmingham, the steel mill filled the air with pollution, but the gardenias acted as our natural air freshener. The windowsills often got dirty, so Momma cleaned them every morning and afternoon without ever complaining. It seemed worth it to have the scent of spring fill our home.
Looking back, it’s easy to think of those days as simpler times. But the truth is, life was hard. There were strikes at the mill where Daddy worked, a car that always seemed to need fixing, and school clothes that didn’t fit because we were growing so quickly.
Still, my parents made it work. The strikes ended, the car got fixed, we got new clothes, and the gardenias kept blooming.
As I submitted the order, memories flooded my mind. Even now, the scent of gardenias feels comforting and safe, like being home.
Every February 21st, I thanked her for those hours of hard labor, for changing my diapers, for teaching me how to walk and how to wipe my butt, for supporting me during the tough times, for being there to share the good times, and, most of all, for her love.
It’s not just my birthday. It’s My Mother’s Day. Although she is gone, I still take time to think about the gardenias and remember the warmth of my mother’s hugs.
