Once in a Life Time

I worked at this nursery, Bittersweet Hill, when I had just turned 20. The woman responsible for this particular garden lived in a cabin in the woods on our property. She was 26, gorgeous, had long blond hair, and wore her passion for plants on her sleeve. She got me the job working here; it was a dream. I had newly shaved my head, still awkward, a virgin to the adult world, and God led me here. The owner is who I dedicate this blog to: Hildreth Morton. Hildreth married a judge, who was never faithful, owned the social scene in Annapolis, and is one of the most fascinating characters I had the pleasure of hanging around for a short while. She was beautiful, even at 85, and so smart. At 85 she was walking the half acre of the nursery (always accompanied with a big, curly haired dog) working every day to share her love of plants with anyone around. This woman was saucy: her favorite words when she was angry was, "Oh mother fucker, shit damn it!", as if it was all one long loud word. Nearly every day she left us after lunch to drink whiskey. People often found her in her Norman Rockwell type office asleep on the desk with a stack of letters and phones ringing. She always pretended to be resting though, and she would get right up like she had the energy of a 20 year old and take care of business. What I loved about Hilthreth is she was such a show stopper. She had an herb festival every year, wine flowed, and people drove from out of the state to hear her lectures. How to prepare wine bowls with eatable herbs, what water plants look best in what pond, etc. She would work the crowd like a Hollywood movie star (but with brains), charming everyone she saw. She could work a room of people like a charismatic politician. Her favorite thing to say to me (when she finally warmed up to me she decided to take me under her wing) was: "Rose presentation is everything. It's not so much what they do see as what they don't." Like the dirt on a vase. Or like in my life now: the smudge on my refrigerator. Every day she cut a red geranium and placed it behind her ear. She still dyed her hair black, and with the red geranium and the passion in her voice, she became an eccentric legend. I loved her work ethic, her unique brain, and that she worked for everything she had. She never cared that her husband was not there, because she was too independent and quirky to let any bastard get her down. She drank herself into a heart attack last May, and this nursery is closing. At the age of 20 I learned more from her then anyone since, in a certain way. When you see a red geranium think of her, or people like her, who over flow with life and leave us as better people.