My grandmother had a garden, and in her garden was a secret. In the days when it was legal to dig up wildflowers and plant them at home, my grandmother had a wild garden. Her pride and joy was a long border at the south boundary. Backed by a solid wall of Engelman spruce, a fiery row of Indian Paintbrush edged the lawn.
Dug carefully from rugged hillsides, the Indian Paintbrush bloomed all summer, bringing with it a kind of ragged, vibrant joy no cultivated flower could match. The border was the talk of the neighborhood, and much envied. The reason for the envy was this:
Lily's Indian Paintbrush grew and thrived. Others would dig plants of Paintbrush, transplant them--and watch them die. They would walk to Lily's garden and gaze long, wondering. Two women in particular were rather bitter with envy. I thought of them as Miss Tall and Miss Bun. One morning when Lily was gone, my mother watched from the window while I played in Lily's garden. The two women strolled by, with long glances at the Paintbrush border. "I don't understand it," Miss Tall said to Miss Bun. "My garden has the same soil, the same sun, the same everything. Lily must have some secret." "Yes," said Miss Bun. "Let's ask her." "No!" replied Miss Tall sharply. "We are just as intelligent. To ask would be admitting defeat. Let's watch her. We'll discover her secret."
They never did. But the answer to the riddle was there all along, blooming merrily in the sunshine, in full view of Miss Tall and Miss Bun. Several times I heard my grandmother offer the two ladies "starts" of Paintbrush, adding, "Would you like to know my secret for growing them?" Once, Miss Bun took home some of the offered "starts." For two weeks I checked her garden from a "watching place" inside a lilac bush on the corner of the property; the Paintbrush starts withered and died. The two ladies would always say, "No, Lily, we can see perfectly well how you grow them," and refuse the eager-to-be-shared knowledge of the secret.
I knew. I knew how Lily had discovered it by patient observation in the wild hills where she had found her original plants. Now, my own Indian Paintbrush plants, started from seed gathered in the wild, raise exhuberant shaggy heads to the sun of the Stronghold. I won't wait for you to ask. Here is Lily's secret:
Indian Paintbrush is a parasite. To survive, Paintbrush roots must attach to roots of some other native perennial plant, preferably a shrub. Without this support, they will die. In Lily's garden, standing just behind the flaming row of Paintbrush, bloomed a line of shrubby cinquefoil, bright with yellow flowers. Below the surface of the soil, intertwined roots told the story. Lily showed me the secret when I was four, and I have never forgotten.
We are such visual beings now, bombarded by images of all sorts every hour of our waking lives. We often think that appearance is all; more dangerously, we believe we have instant, complete understanding just from seeing. Watch. Wait. Ask. Learn. The earth is subtle and complex. The Paintbrush does not stand alone.
by Uncialle, copyright 1998
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