Twice a year the ladies of St. George’s and St. Michael’s fill Pigeon Hill with the sweet smell of baking bread. It means no playing cowboys, no red light-green light or hiding the button. It means pulling my brother's rusty red wagon from under the back porch and following mom around to our elderly neighbors to see if they want some homemade bread. Brown paper bags and the butcher knife wrapped in burlap means a stop at the garden. Mrs. Hass lets us use her empty lot for our garden, a victory garden. I didn't know why it was called a victory garden. My friend Donny, who knows everything, didn't seem to know either, just that it was called a Victory garden. Everyone had one, he said. Now, flowers replaced potatoes and onions in many of those gardens.
Kathie Linster was our first stop, a widow who had just turned a hundred the past February. She was a leap year baby, something I would have to ask Donny about. She always reminded me, if I had been born a day later I wouldn't have a birthday every year. It was never a “yes” or “no” about wanting bread, there was always the visit. At Kathie Linster's, her dog Sportie would hide under the stove and bark at me the whole visit while mom talked in another room with Mrs. Linster about some potted plants. There were plenty of potted plants in Kathie's kitchen. I liked potted plants, mine was a sweet potato growing in a glass of water. Mrs. Linster had plants growing out of milk bottles, no dirt in the bottle, just water. I could see the roots and through the bottle to the outside. She had a plate with a portrait painted on it hanging over the sink in front of the window. A painting of a boy fishing was taped next to the window. Sportie kept barking as I looked around. Mom and Mrs. Linster returned to the kitchen, they had been talking about a man who had hung himself the week before. Between Sportie’s barks I heard a bit of their conversation. I wasn't supposed to hear what they were saying. Mom had forgot Donny and I were there that day playing when Mrs. Bash screamed from her upstairs window that Jack, her husband, had hung himself. Mom tried to explain about Mr. Bash, and we ended up saying a Hail Mary for him.
From Mrs. Linster’s, it was off to Mr. Kishs' with more visiting, only it was on his porch, where he seemed to spend his entire day watching us kids play. We visited with a couple more people, getting a few more orders for bread and some requests for rhubarb from our garden. We filled the orders for rhubarb, green beans, peas and baby carrots before heading onto St. Georges Hall for the bread. Passing the Jungle Brother’s garden, mom took in a long look. It was a feast of colors. Their irises were in full bloom, mom just stood there. I could feel her dreaming. If it weren't for having to feed five kids, mom would have only flowers growing in our garden. I was more than willing to give up the brussel sprouts and broccoli for flowers.
These days I find myself doing paintings from those visits. My cousin Lisa brought irises up to my studio last year and I did several color sketches of them, remembering mom and the Jungle’s garden as I painted. Many of my paintings are trips back to those days with Donny, and waiting for mom to let me go play.
