Where Lilacs Still Bloom Read Online Free PDF

lilacs begged me to turn my interests their way. I’d always had a dream, one I never told my father; but after our apple conversation, I told Frank.
    “I’ve always wanted to see a red lilac,” I said. “And a creamy white.”
    “I like them the way they are. But I know you see themdifferent.” It was the height of the season where the colors were true and outshined the glassy leaves.
    “What I really want,” I said, “is to have a bloom with many petals instead of just four.”
    Frank pushed his hat toward the back of his forehead. “Now, that’s a challenge.”
    I shrugged my shoulders. “But I’ve had success with my apples and my daffodils. I think lilacs are next.”
    “So long as there’s bread on the table,” he cautioned. “And pies in the oven.”
    “I’ll make time for you, Frank.” I patted his hand. “And the children. You know I will. I just need to mark these bushes so I can pollinate next spring.” I pulled marked strips of cloth from my apron and took out one with two stitches made with white thread, to mark the pale purple bloom as the closest to white as I’d seen. At another bush I had ruby-red thread to suggest that purple bloom headed toward a reddish tint. I had made up dozens of markers while I sat in the evenings watching Frank write up the creamery board meeting minutes.
    “How would it be if I made metal tags for you?” Frank nodded toward my threads. “I could press in letters for codes.”
    “Why, that would be good. Wonderful. Thank you. Now I can spend my evenings looking at seed catalogs.” I grinned.
    “Would you ever consider selling some of your inventions to a seed company?” Frank asked.
    “What would be the fun in that? I like being able to give them away, to see who they go to. It’s just a little hobby, Frank. Nothing serious.”
    Frank nodded, but I felt a twinge of guilt again, that I devoted time and now Frank’s energy, too, for tasks that had no financial return and actually took money when I ordered new bulbs. At least I was pollinating from my own plants, so we saved that expense.
    “If you want, I can mark things in that book you keep too.”
    “Your penmanship is so much better than mine.”
    “You wouldn’t want to breed a pale purple to a deep purple without knowing it.”
    I couldn’t tell if he teased or not, but he was absolutely right.

    On a still morning when cranes called to one another on the Lewis, and dew marked the day, I made my way with a magnifying glass, a crochet hook, a turkey feather, and one of the children’s paintbrushes. I sought pollen on the palest purple bloom I’d marked the year before with Frank’s tag. Lilac pollen is as tiny as beach sand. The day was almost sultry with the fresh smell of turned earth from the vegetable garden Frank plowed up for us. As though I carried a hot cup of water across a room, I first used the paintbrush to lift pollenonto the turkey feather, and then with the crochet hook, I placed a grain at a time onto the stamen pushing up from the center of a promised bloom on the plant I wanted to change. Before moving on to the next one, I carefully wrapped a cloth bag around the fertilized plant so no bird or bee would come along and try to interfere with my plans. It seemed brassy to think that what a bee did by nature was somehow interfering, but I wanted to control what happened as best I could. I soon gave up on the paintbrush and just used the turkey feather to lift the pollen and carry it. I couldn’t get close enough to the plants with my Chinese hat on, so I took it off to bend closer to my work. With each transfer of pollen from one plant to the other, I held my breath. I did hundreds that first day.
    “Look at you, Mama,” Lizzie said, home for the summer. “Your face is burned to a crisp. The ladies at church will cluck their tongues when your cheeks turn brown as a bean.” I’d forgotten how long I’d been out in the sun without my hat. Lizzie left, then returned to rub