Our flowers loved this Montana summer: daffodils and tulips early on; iris and lilacs; and then when the days heated up delphiniums and petunias and zinnias and marigolds and morning glories and tiger lilies. A happy abundance we seldom see.
And so, driving around Helena, admiring gardens, I was returned to Gettysburg and the summer of 1973. I lived in the sweet garret apartment next to the National Cemetery—all dormers and gables. No furniture that counted except a bed and tippy ice cream parlor table. But a glorious life rich with work I loved at the Park; a bevy of friends; a sense of mastery and creativity. Able to entertain on those flimsy wire chairs, flirt, travel a bit, begin acquiring the stuff of a real household.
And one summer evening, I came home to an enormous bunch of tiger lilies left on the stairs to my apartment. No card. Just this bouquet tied into an armful of electric green and orange. Exotic, stunning—up close almost orchids with their velvet petals.
Tentative and discreet inquiries as to their origin came up empty. How could I not be curious then—and now? And touched. Rendered wistful. Except for the gardenia corsage that Steve Kubin’s mother ordered for my prom date with Steve, I’d never been wooed with flowers. Well, and actually Mrs. Kubin’s purchase didn’t count either!
And may not have been then. But I’ve lived 50 years savoring the joy that a summer’s evening gift of lilies gave me. Holding close the knowledge—not the possibility but the knowledge–that someone out there in my Park Service/Gettysburg universe cared. Cared enough to let those exuberant blooms—and the energy invested in gathering and delivering them– speak for themselves with no strings attached.
I run through the likely names and faces: Barb and Roger and their lively farm and art and garden; Glen and Marie—who offered motorcycle rides through the park at dusk; Audrey and Hank, my many-childrened neighbors in the Cemetery gatekeepers house; Betty and Joyce and Carmen and Mary and Nora, the local ladies who knew more than all the rest of us combined and kept the Park running; close friends Mike and Melinda; the summer rangers Alan and Jude and Bob—after all Alan had a crush on me; surely not Mr. Harrison or Newt or Jerry, the brass. The mystery endures. But picturing those colleagues and friends and the ties that bound us in those Gettysburg years remains as sweet as that armful of tiger lilies. ©
