It was a cold, drizzly day. Mist nudged up against the windows and doors of the house. I was adding more wood to the fire when I heard a knock at the front door.
Judy was standing on the doorstep, wearing her usual faded green sweatpants, a hand-knitted sweater—and a silver tiara. She only wore her tiara on special occasions. She held a large, crumpled plastic bag in her arms. We smiled warmly at each other.
"Flowers for the newborn child," she declared, holding out the bag. I welcomed my friend and accepted the package. There was no sign of any flowers, but I said "thank you" anyway.
Judy has always been full of surprises. If she said she brought flowers, then sooner or later, flowers would appear. I have never known anyone even vaguely like her. She has always approached things differently, danced to her own tune. At seventy-six, she still considered such practical things as umbrellas or raincoats unnecessary on rainy days. She would simply stride out into any weather, defying rain or snow. "I've yet to hear of a person dissolving because of a little extra moisture in the air," she'd say.
That particular morning, there were tiny jewels of rain nestled in the weave of her sweater, a cascade of droplets adding sparkle to her wiry gray hair, rain still clinging to the tip of her nose. She shook her head vigorously back and forth, like a dog after a swim, then matter-of-factly straightened her tiara.
"Where is the little darling?" she asked. "I'm dying to meet her, dear."
I led the way to the sky-blue door at the end of the narrow hall. We both looked in, barely breathing.
The curtains in the little room were open. Low square windows framed a dripping wisteria vine in full flower. My daughter lay fast asleep in her grandfather's wicker baby basket. She was loosely swaddled in a cotton blanket. From the walls around her, pale pink and blue sheep grazed peacefully in her newborn baby landscape.
I looked at Judy. She was gazing intently at my child.
At first, she said nothing. Then she whispered, "Alisaundre. Alisaundre." She leaned over the wicker basket, ran her knotted brown hand lightly across Alisaundre's pale, sleeping cheek. Judy's bright eyes shone at the sight of a smudge of black hair splayed out on the white sheet like a charcoal drawing.
"I've brought flowers for you, Alisaundre," Judy said. She glanced briefly in my direction before she continued. "Your mother has them, dear, in that plastic bag she's holding. But these flowers are the kind that will last forever."
I opened the bag and peered into it. I looked up, confused. Judy straightened herself and began to explain.
"I've made her a blanket, dear. I used the wool from my sheep. I searched until I found a variety of plants and organic materials to create the brightest pigment dyes. Then I matched the first letters of the natural colors with the letters in Alisaundre's name."
She took the bag from me, unfolded the blanket, and scattered a summer garden into the room. I caught my breath. Alisaundre stirred in her sleep.
I stood entranced as I listened to Judy name the colors she had knitted into this exuberant striped blanket, a work of art that both described and spelled my first child's name:
"Aloe, Lichen, Iris, Sage, Alum, Ultramarine, Nasturtium, Dandelion, Red iron oxide and English marigold. Alisaundre."
Judy spread her worn hand over the rainbow. Wool the color of softest sand separated each of the colored rows. "I dyed the wool in my tin tub, then spun it into skeins," she went on. "I used my longest, thickest needles to knit the colors. With time, the weave will stretch and the blanket will grow, just as Alisaundre will."
I didn't know what to say, or how to say it. The blanket was more than beautiful, more than profound, more than fantastic. I gathered it in my arms and burrowed my face into it. It smelled of distant fields and lazy sheep, summer flowers and the rich earth's perfume. I draped it lightly over my daughter as she slept. Judy bent down to kiss her gently on the forehead, and together we tiptoed out of the room.
That was fourteen years ago. The same small blanket that fit the wicker basket grew with the baby to fit the crib, comforted my toddler in her day bed, and followed my girl to her full-size bed. Every night, Judy's flowers snuggle close to the lovely long-limbed young woman who is my daughter, Alisaundre.
"I've made her a blanket, dear. I used the wool from my sheep. I searched until I found a variety of plants and organic materials to create the brightest pigment dyes. Then I matched the first letters of the natural colors with the letters in Alisaundre's name."
She took the bag from me, unfolded the blanket, and scattered a summer garden into the room. I caught my breath. Alisaundre stirred in her sleep.
I stood entranced as I listened to Judy name the colors she had knitted into this exuberant striped blanket, a work of art that both described and spelled my first child's name:
"Aloe, Lichen, Iris, Sage, Alum, Ultramarine, Nasturtium, Dandelion, Red iron oxide and English marigold. Alisaundre."
Judy spread her worn hand over the rainbow. Wool the color of softest sand separated each of the colored rows. "I dyed the wool in my tin tub, then spun it into skeins," she went on. "I used my longest, thickest needles to knit the colors. With time, the weave will stretch and the blanket will grow, just as Alisaundre will."
I didn't know what to say, or how to say it. The blanket was more than beautiful, more than profound, more than fantastic. I gathered it in my arms and burrowed my face into it. It smelled of distant fields and lazy sheep, summer flowers and the rich earth's perfume. I draped it lightly over my daughter as she slept. Judy bent down to kiss her gently on the forehead, and together we tiptoed out of the room.
That was fourteen years ago. The same small blanket that fit the wicker basket grew with the baby to fit the crib, comforted my toddler in her day bed, and followed my girl to her full-size bed. Every night, Judy's flowers snuggle close to the lovely long-limbed young woman who is my daughter, Alisaundre.
Reprinted of Claire Beynon (c) 2000 from Chicken Soup for the Gardener's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Cynthia Brian, Cindy Buck, Marion Owen, Pat Stone and Carol Sturgulewski.
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