Tuesday, May 22, 2012

A FONDNESS FOR IRIS


I've always liked irises. Maybe because of Mary Mullins, who lived in the house next door on the street where I grew up.

Mary was a slim, pretty, golden-redhead, perhaps a decade younger than my parents—though still an enigmatic adult. She worked at one of the General Motors factories a few miles away, was a divorcee, drank beer, had a huge gray Persian cat named Fluffy, wore red lipstick and, when the weather was warm, tended to dress in shorts and halter tops like the Hollywood starlets you saw in movie previews at the drive-in. Even in my pre-pubescent oblivion, I thought she was special.
 
She was also friendly, nice to me and my parents, a good neighbor we liked—though many on the street treated Mary with a certain degree of standoffishness.
 
Mary had an obvious fondness for irises. On both side of her driveway, which led from the street, between my parents' house and hers, to a mostly disused garage in back, Mary had planted dozens—probably hundreds!—of iris, with more growing in back of the house, along the walkways, and bordering the side fences.

However, so far as I remember, there were only two flower colors—purple and white…though the whites ranged anywhere from icy to creamy, while purples came in every hue from nearly-blue to violet, orchid, mauve, lavender, and a plum so richly dark that from only a short distance away it appeared black. But none of the yellows, oranges, magentas, or reds of today. 

Whether such color variations were available, or easily affordable, back then, or whether Mary simply preferred a more restricted palette, I can't say. Yet her garden was no less stunning for such limitations.

I have a variety of iris scattered around the yard—many of which I bought on the cheap a year ago at a local nursery sale. Three or four were purchased from a nearby big-box store where I buy groceries. A dozen others were given to me last summer by a neighbor who'd received more than she could handle from another neighbor when she thinned out a patch in her front yard; sort of twice-shared plants. 

So far as I know, the one above is the only example of this particular variation. At least it's the only such bloom I've had this spring. The flower made its debut and too-so exit over the last few days. I believe it's from the nursery close-out's mixed bunch, but have no idea what it's called.

While it's neither purple nor white, I thought it looked lovely in the bright shade of morning light. Wonder what Mary would say?
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10 comments:

Debbie said...

Exceptional photo. I have a few purples, not the prettiest, but showy when they first bloom. They don't last long enough. We tend to take them for granted at a distance, but when you examine them closely they are pretty marvelous. I really like the color of that one.
Debbie

Scott said...

Does Lady Love know about your fondness for Iris...? :}

Grizz………… said...

Debbie…

That's the problem with iris…they don't last near long enough. Up close, like you say, they are exceptional blooms, great color, showy, really neat to isolate part-by-part in a series of photos.

I like the color of this one, too.

Grizz………… said...

Scott…

Ahhhh—you're trying to get me into trouble. Well, yes indeed, Myladylove read the post last night and I came clean about my iris thing.

Rowan said...

That is a really fabulous colour - it looks like a rich Persian carpet.

Grizz………… said...

Rowan…

You know, I'd never thought of the colors that way, but you're right—they really do remind you of a Persian carpet. A great simile.

Robin said...

You seem to be following my heart.

Iris' have been on my mind for nearly a week... mostly because we have some beautiful ones at work.

My mother bought a huge, pre-civil war house in Kentucky and it had both an ancient fish pond, and nearby a huge stand of Iris'.

She didn't give much credence to the pond (though I so wanted her to) but she loved that stand of Iris. I did, too.

Odd how you find familiarity and closeness with people by the choices they made.

Thank you for the reminder.

Grizz………… said...

Robin…

Funny you should mention a fish pond in regards to iris.

The house next door to us—Mary's house—was an older home, as were the majority on the street. (Dad built our house, but most of the rest were from the turn of the century—say 1920s or before.)

The end of Mary's house was shaded by several huge maples, their thick branches and dense leaves formed a roof just above your head. A wide flagstone terrace extended under them the width of the building, from the back door perhaps 20 feet out. It was dark in there—dim, slightly damp, almost a cave. This whole shady nook was planted along it's outer perimeter in iris, which in turn bordered a stone-lined fish pond that was situated between the building and the back yard—mostly in the shaded "cave." Mary kept water lilies and other aquatic plants in the three-foot deep pond, as well as foot-long multi-hued goldfish, possibly koi…though nobody would have called them that and I certainly never heard the word.

Naturally, I was more interested in the pond than the plants, and was always eager to go sit on the rock border or the stone bench at one end, and mess with the fish. I loved that shadowy area, the leafy roof overhead, the pond and fish and iris, the uneven flagstones, the air, damp and thick, oddly scented—and the morning glory which climbed up the corner downspout where it was sunny and competed with the iris for showy purple blooms. A wonderful, secretive, hideaway place.

There's a whole bunch of generations back there who loved iris and fish ponds, too…and I can just see that rambling old house your mother bought, and the plantings. I would have liked that place I think, precisely because of its almost preternatural familiarity. Isn't it odd how closely our memories parallel?

Robin said...

Not odd. I think, maybe..... meant?

Grizz………… said...

Robin…

Yeah, one of those sub-level touchstones.