My Mother's Primroses

Spring sprang early this year in Oregon, and my Mother's primroses are happy.

BTW, these are not those plants with vividly fluorescent flowers you find at the nursery and grocery store this time of year. These primroses, which my Mother called cowslips, are dainty, old-fashioned flowers. They come in 3 colors: yellow, orange, and red.  A deep red, a rusty orange, and a clear soft yellow.

After my Mother died in 1984, I didn't return to West Virginia for 9 years.  When I finally could return, my old friend Pam accompanied me for the pilgrimage.  Unexpectedly, we (Pam, actually) discovered some of my Mother's flowers still growing after all those years of neglect.  We proceeded to dig up an enormous batch of plants -- primroses, roses, and my Mother's favorite "shrub bush."

Those plants spent 3 days in the trunk of my car in plastic grocery bags.  My poor little car labored with all the extra weight when we returned back over the mountains to Maryland.  I planted everything in my yard and they did okay.  When I got divorced and moved, I dug them up again and moved them to my yard in Bethesda, where they grew for the next 12 years.  During those years, the primroses grew and multiplied.  (I flourished during those years too; I did not multiply.)  They had never done this when I was growing up in West Virginia.  I guess my mother had tended them so well -- digging them up every year or so, dividing them, and replanting -- they never had a chance to multiply on their own.  Well, I am not that kind of gardener.  I practice what can best be described as "Darwinian horticulture," i.e., survival of the fittest.  These primroses are fit.

When I decided to move to Oregon, there was no question about what would happen to the primroses.  Mina and I (mostly Mina) became accustomed to making every trip from Bethesda to Corvallis with luggage at least half filled with plastic bags of plants (with substantial rootballs).  TSA became accustomed to leaving little pre-printed notes inside our luggage saying that they had been there, just to check things out.  I imagine they got a few chuckles over suitcases filled with vegetation and dirt.  Eventually, after many trips, all the primroses made it to Corvallis and took up residence in Mina's yard.  Then, of course, we moved into our current (and hopefully, last) house.

 

We delayed moving the primroses again until Mina's house was sold.  The ones we had planted in the front yard had endured the blazing Oregon sun throughout the summer with little tending and were looking not-so-good.  The ones in the shade in the back yard were looking somewhat better, but not completely happy either, due to the lack of regular watering.  Nonetheless, we dug them all up (AGAIN) and moved them to a spot on the hillside just in back of our house, just beyond the deck, right outside the kitchen window.  And we surrounded them with their own little fence to keep them from becoming deer snacks.

In very little time, they began to settle in and grow again.  But then we had a wicked cold spell during the winter.  Every plant looked less than vigorous after two weeks or so of sub-sub-freezing nights and more sub-freezing days.  And while the winter was less wet than usual for Oregon, the ground nonetheless got wet and stayed wet throughout the winter.  I began to wonder whether they would survive.  Root rot plagued my pessimistic thoughts.

But spring came to Corvallis this year in late January/early February ... very early.  By February, we had our first primrose bud, and now blossoms. 

Yes, we transplants from West Virginia ... tough, hardy stock ... are loving it here in Oregon.  Every time I see a rainbow (which is often), I know my dear friend François-Auguste is smiling at me, and every time I look at my Mother's primroses, I remember her and where I come from.  Mina and I live in a house tucked up against a hill, quite like the hill I grew up with.  (The house is nothing like the house I grew up with, but the hill reminds me of home.)  My Mother's primroses lived on that hill, and now live on this one.  They have survived, and appear to be thriving in their new home ... as am I.