The Golden Haze of October

      In the spring we hauled an old formica table up to the garden under the bough of a large maple tree. I spent many mornings there with the children, overlooking the garden and studying nature. But in middle of July, a violent thunderstorm cracked the sheltering branches to the ground. It was a sad turn of events because there wasn’t another tree nearby to provide shade. I’m grateful for the Lord’s protection, though. We could have been seriously hurt if one of those branches had broken off while we were sitting under it on a windy day. 

      In August, after a month-long heat wave subsided, I moved my lawn chair to the southeast corner of the garden under the branches of a young walnut tree. The leaves were lush and green, and it was a pleasant place to view the beans and cucumbers “close up” and from a new perspective. The tree was the size of a small bush when we moved here seven years ago and there were many times I thought that it should be chopped down, especially when my husband tilled a new garden plot around it. But I’m glad he left it alone, because it has earned a cherished place in my heart.    

   We had lots of rain this summer, too much in fact. The walnut tree started losing its leaves early in September, a good month before the first frost. Once again I searched for a place in the shade. I hadn’t been up to the garden for a few days, and as I slowly navigated up the hill – coffee cup and journal in one hand, lawn chair in the other – I saw walnuts lying on the ground under the tree.

   

    Suddenly I remembered another time in October, a day cool and delicious like this one, when my mother and I picked walnuts on the side of the road in the nearby town of Long Grove. I can still see the sun filtering through the yellow leaves of two huge walnut trees and hundreds of bright green husks lying on the gravel. I remember how we filled our baskets over and over again, dumping our stockpile into boxes in the back of her brown station wagon. The beauty of that day lingers in my memory.

     After reading my Bible and journaling for a while, I picked one of the last bushels of beans from this year’s harvest and headed back down to the house. I accidentally left my camera hanging from one of the trellises, and sent Elizabeth up to fetch it. She saw the walnuts lying on the ground, too. When she came back down to the house she said, “Mom, I want to make ink out of the walnuts.” I thought to myself, Oh Lord, I see the connection you’re making – traditions passed down from mothers to daughters on hazy October days. Special moments planted in the fertile soil of a young girl’s heart. Words and walnuts swirling around in pots of inky water – raw umber letters across pages of white….

      We filled a cast iron Dutch oven with water and walnuts to slowly simmer on the stove. Hours later, after some of the liquid evaporated, we added a tablespoon of gum arabic (a preservative used in making ink) and a tablespoon of vinegar.  When I researched how to make walnut ink on the internet, I came across the Hammon’s black walnut site. I was tickled by a sentence I read, “Black walnuts are a hands-on product, from planting to harvest to final processing.” 
“That’s it,” I exclaimed to my children. “That’s my job. To give you a hunger and thirst for the Lord – from planting to harvest to final processing!”

After my mother became a Christian, she gave me that hunger, born out of the pain and suffering she experienced as she bravely fought against a debilitating disease. My father recently wrote a letter to us kids (there’s five of us), and included this sentiment about her. “Your mom was the fire that lit all of our lives; we should always remember her with reverence and gratitude for her relentless effort to get us all saved.”  

    My mother led me to the Lord in her living room and I am forever in her debt. She showed me how walk by faith through the good times and bad, especially when God moves your chair – through circumstances – to another window or in this case another side of the garden, to help you gain a heavenly perspective and a whole new outlook on life.    

     I don’t know what prompted my mother to invite me to go walnut picking. I’m glad we had a few special times together before she died because I was married and busy with a life of my own and looking back now, my visits were all too infrequent. After she passed away, I was helping my father get ready for a rummage sale when I discovered several cans of walnuts in their basement. A warm feeling washed over me. I brought those cans home as memorial  of our relationship and kept them in the back of my closet for the longest time.

     I wonder, come next fall, if Elizabeth will remember the special time we had together this year making ink. Will the golden haze of October remind her that it’s time to gather walnuts? The Lord willing, I will be ready and waiting with my basket at the garden’s edge, under the branches of the young walnut tree…

The Geese in the Field

 

 

     Once the soybean field is harvested, the geese come…

 

 

 

   

        It’s 6:30 p.m. and the sun is setting. All of the sudden, the air is filled with the honks of hundreds of Canada geese arising from the field. Their song is heard for miles as it builds to a glorious crescendo. Each group of birds   instinctively falls into “V” formation and circles the field before flying off in different directions. The sky is clear in minutes.

      As the last rays of light give way to darkness, the geese find safe haven floating atop lapping waves of nearby ponds and lakes. For the next week they will return every morning to pick the harvested fields clean. And every evening, as dusk approaches, they will leave—until they come no more. 

 

    

      My family has grown accustomed  to the presence of the geese in the fall, but we refuse to take them for granted.  When the honking starts, I run outside and gaze up at the majestic bodies flying overhead. Soon the screen door bangs and the children join me. We watch, spellbound, as more and more birds take off. Then I tell them a secret. “If the geese fly low enough you can hear their hearts beating.” They laugh.

      I raise my arms and wave wildly toward the sky. “Hello, hello! I’m here! I love you!” Tears spring to my eyes. I’m crazy! I sound like a three-year-old…but I can’t help it. I want to tell the geese how I feel. In the shelter of the barn, our own geese stir as they hear my voice rise on the frosty air. Their honks join those of the wild ones as if to say, “Fly high…fly free, for me.” And standing in awe, with my arms outstretched, I can only echo their cry.       

 
 

Spiced Autumn Leaves

Down! Down!

Down, down!
Yellow and brown
The leaves are falling
Over the town.

Spiced Autumn Leaves

You will need
 
2 cups confectioners’ sugar ½ cup (I stick) butter,
softened
4 ounces cream cheese, softened (half of an
8-ounce package)
I egg
I teaspoon vanilla extract 2½ cups all-purpose flour
I teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
¼  teaspoon ground nutmeg
¼ teaspoon salt
food colorings In assorted colors

Special Aids
3-Inch leaf-shaped cookie cutter
wooden skewer
Makes about 4 dozen cookies

 

Preparing the Dough

1. In a large bowl, using an electric mixer set on medium speed, beat sugar, butter and cream cheese until light and fluffy, about 1 minute. Beat in egg and vanilla until combined.

2. In a medium bowl, using a whisk, combine flour, cinnamon, baking powder, cloves, nutmeg and salt. Add to cream- cheese mixture; stir until a dough forms.
3. Divide dough into 4 equal parts. Knead food colorings into dough to tint each piece a different autumn color. 

4. Shape each piece of dough into a disk; wrap each disk separately in plastic wrap. Freeze dough until slightly firm, about 15 minutes.

 

Making the Cookies

1. Preheat oven to 375°F. Using your hands, divide each color dough into several small pieces. Gather about one- quarter of dough pieces from each color dough and press together to form a multicolored disk, being careful not to combine colors completely. Continue pressing the pieces of dough together to form 4 multicolored dough disks.  

 

2. Wrap 3 dough disks separately in plastic wrap; chill until ready to use. On a lightly floured surface, using a floured rolling pin, roll remaining dough to a ¼-inch thickness. Using a 3-inch leaf-shaped cookie cutter, cut out leaf shapes, rerolling scraps for additional cookies.

Transfer cutouts to ungreased baking sheets. Using a wooden skewer, draw “veins” on leaves.  4 Bake cookies until edges just start to brown, 7-9 minutes; transfer to wire racks to cool. Continue rolling, cutting and baking remaining dough.  

Enjoy!

 

 

Gifts from the Garden – Part Two

           I couldn’t bring myself to write about the end of the gardening season this year. How could I say goodbye? Who can find words to express the way you feel when you are separated from someone – or something – you’ve held so dear, even for just a season? It was hard to bring closure to all the experiences I had, nurturing seedlings to maturity to reaping a harvest-full of memories with my husband and children.
     Harriette Jacobs from South of the Gnat Line asked me if I “winter garden.” I chuckled at the thought. I would if I could, but frigid Illinois winters prevent us from planting cold weather crops. Even though our imaginations remain alive   with dreams and plans for next year’s garden, the ground must rest.
      This year, most of the vegetables were harvested long before the frost came. Due to too much rain in August, the tomato plants shriveled and turned brown by September, a good month before the chilling temperatures arrived. Unlike most years, when my fingers – numb with cold – fumble under broad green leaves for the last home-grown tomatoes, the children and I picked the vines clean in 70-degree weather with the sun beating down upon our backs.

     Finally, October 12^th, dawned. A surprise blizzard barreled down on us from the North, mocking our attempts to keep the garden permanently fixed in our affections. I donned a pair of gloves, boots, and my warm winter parka. In-between squalls I sloshed up to the garden to take pictures of the remaining snow-covered vegetables. Anna joined me, and as we walked the garden path, we recited the opening line from James Whitcomb Riley’s poem, “When the Frost is on the Punkin’.” The weather radio forecasted a hard frost that night and sure enough, by the next morning, Jack Frost had stole ruthlessly across the fields, scaling the garden fence, icy sword in hand to slay my heart.

      I knew this day would come, and even though I made a conscious effort to spend more time up in the garden than I did last year, I still couldn’t believe the growing season was over. Gone were all the joy-filled mornings of sitting under the young walnut tree, watching the American gold finches flit from one sunflower to another. Gone was the hallowed spot of earth next to the bean trellises, where from my chair I surveyed my garden with delight. Sitting there, shaded from the hot sun with my Bible, journal and cup of coffee, I listened intently to the words and phrases that God brought to mind. Pictures and analogies formed, causing my heart to understand the truths that He was teaching me – lessons that could only be learned from observing young pole beans inch their way to the sky or heavy cucumbers  hang from thin tender vines. The time spent walking the garden paths brought deep contentment as I drank in the heavenly fragrance of milkweed in July and the spicy odor of tomato perfume in August. And here it was December…and no words came.   

      As much as I like to be prepared, I ran out of time to put together a present for our dear neighbor, Mrs. Kraft. Sarah, as she likes to be called, is 90 and there isn’t much she needs or wants any more and there isn’t much you can surprise her with unless you give her a one-of-a-kind homemade gift. Over the last few years I have given her a lot of nature-related gifts because the land we live on belongs to her. One year, we gave her a DVD filled with nature photography and drawings that we had captured of specimens that she and her family just take for granted. Another year I gave her a series of watercolors, painted from wildflowers that grow on her two hundred acre farm. Another year I gave her a book full of journal entries recounting the stories and comments she had said to us over the year’s time. This year I found myself wondering what kind of gift would really bless her – something that I hadn’t done before.

     I looked at my canned goods shelf. I had already given her several different jars of pickles at harvest time. And then I thought about my garden journal. She hadn’t heard these stories yet. I got my binder out and thumbed through the entries. This would make a wonderful gift along with a jar of crabapple sauce from her favorite little crabapple tree. There was one more thing. Our pet goose Peep-Peep (also one of Sarah’s favorites)just started laying again. We had a large white egg we could give her. I carefully wrapped it inside a vintage Christmas hankie with red embroidered poinsettias that my sister had sent from Maine.
      

     When Sarah opened her presents she was so thrilled. She thanked me over and over again for the “priceless” gifts. I knew once again that we had given her a gift of gratitude from our hearts to hers, and that’s when the words came – the story of how my garden journal found its way to Sarah’s hands on Christmas Day. It was the perfect ending to a joy-filled gardening season…and “priceless!”

Gifts from the Garden – Part One

    I remember a gift my husband’s sister gave us 28 years ago as we celebrated our first Christmas together. It was a large box of home-made canned goods and preserves from her garden, nestled among red and green tissue paper. I don’t think I appreciated it that much because I had never canned before, but over the years I have come to be grateful for the hard work it takes to fill just one Ball jar.

    Near the end of the summer I found a canning recipe in my Ball Blue Book of Preserving called “end of the garden pickle.” I loved the name and the idea of putting up as many different kinds of vegetables in one jar as you possibly could. Waves of melancholy swept over me as I strolled through the garden, red wagon and baskets in tow, gathering the last of the vegetables. I filled a basket with the Spanish onions that Elizabeth had planted. I picked sweet red peppers off of the green pepper plants and green peppers off of what was supposed to be the yellow pepper plants. I reached in-between trellis rungs and pulled out handfuls of string beans off of twisty vines. I loaded the last of the zucchini and yellow summer squash in to the bed of the wagon,and rolled it down the hill to the house. 

     For the last time, I filled the blue speckled quart jar canner with water from the kitchen tap. After washing, scrubbing, peeling, and slicing the vegetables, I measured 4 cups of vinegar and 4 cups of sugar into a large white enamel pot that I use for cooking large batches. Instead of following the recipe exactly, I stirred in a whole jar of McCormick’s pickling spices into the simmering mixture. The recipe yielded about six quarts and after the vegetables “cured” for a couple of weeks, I opened the jar and sampled a crisp string bean. The texture was excellent, but the vinegar was way too spicy for my taste buds. I realized I had made a mistake by adding a whole jar of pickling spices and found that I could only tolerate a little of the pickle at a time, just as Iong as I ate it with something like a sandwich. I was disappointed and sure that I had ruined the whole batch.

     The week before Christmas I boxed up eight jars of home-made canned goods from our garden and sent them across the miles to my sister June in Maine. I bubbled wrapped each jar individually and carefully packed them into a holiday gift box with a New England covered bridge on the lid. It was a tight fit, and soon the box was filled with bread and butter pickles, sweet and sour pickles, piccalilli, apple sauce, crab apple sauce, tomato apple chutney, pesto, and a quart-sized jar of “end of the garden pickle.” Even if it didn’t taste good, it sure looked good. 

     I called June and told her to open the box right away because there was something perishable in it. I hoped the small jar of thawing pesto would keep as it traveled across the country in cold post office trucks. I also wanted to warn her about a certain item with a rather strong bite.
     I wasn’t home when the box arrived at her house and by the time I did talk with her that day, it was too late. She had opened the “end of the garden pickle” first and absolutely loved it – all by itself! I was tickled to no end as she raved on and on about the flavor, calling it “scrumpdillyumptious!” When I asked her later what she thought about her Christmas present she said, “Well, needless to say I was ecstatic to receive the bounty of your harvest. After unpacking each and every bottle and reading their names, my mouth began to water.”  

June knew from previous experience what a real treat home-made preserves are. Last year she visited at harvest time and taste-tested each recipe as it was being canned. She especially loved my tomato apple chutney and I didn’t think I could outdo myself, but the “end of the garden pickle” is definitely at the top of her list this year.

   If you happen to get a home-made jar of piccalilli or dill pickles, or maybe even a jar of “end of the garden pickle” for Christmas next year, consider yourself honored. You won’t just be getting a jar of vegetables, but a labor of love.                

My faithful friend Lexington followed me up to the garden everyday and kept me company
as I journaled and wrote about the garden. Pookoo, one of our six cats is sitting in my garden chair.

Sketch of a Chicken

 

Sketch of Speckles – January 9th, 2007

Copyright 2007
by Jill Novak

Anna’s Amazing “Discovery” or How to Draw a Toad

    Anna rushed into the house, shouting for joy. She had discovered a nature specimen in the same spot where she found one last week. It was under a large coil of plastic drainage pipe lying near the garage. The older kids and I hurried outside to observe her treasure. Resting in the cool shadow of the pipe was an American toad. I gingerly picked up the little guy with two fingers and carried him into the house.     
    Anna’s enthusiasm prompted the older kids and I to gather around the living room table to draw. I got out a new set of Derwent watercolor pencils that I had recently purchased off EBay (Anna misplaced most of my other set). We had all the right colors: olive green, golden brown, brown ochre, copper beech, and terracotta. Derwent watercolor pencils are very soft to work with and we often use them dry. I held the toad extended in the middle of the table, and we began sketching. For the most part it stayed still enough for us to try some decent quick sketches, although Eric kept getting the rear view. When Anna came into the living room and saw what we were doing, she exclaimed, “Oh, you’re drawing the toad.” Promptly, she pulled up a chair to join us and the comments began to fly.

   Anna’s Toad,  age 8

     “I think I’m drawing a fish,” Anna said.
     “I can’t get the shape right,” Elizabeth said.
     “There is no shape, it’s a blob,” Eric replied.   
     “I like bulgy toads,” Anna said. “It’s greenish, brownish, and bumpish.” I chuckled to myself. Only an eight-year-old would think of saying something like that.   

Elizabeth’s Toad, age 12

     We traded holding the toad and drawing it for a while, but everyone was struggling with its shape. I suggested that we try doing some blind contour drawing. Blind contour drawing is an exercise where you look only at your subject instead of your paper, while drawing a continuous line without lifting your pencil. This exercise trains your eyes to follow the contour or line of an object so that you can really see what you are attempting to draw. Children usually enjoy this exercise after they get used to it and helps them to process drawing in a different way. Except for a few distinctive characteristics, the finished drawing often looks nothing like the object they are trying to re-create–and that’s okay. The purpose of this exercise is to train your eye to see what is really there instead of what you think is there.

Elizabeth’s Blind Contour Drawing 

Jill’s Toad

      I started the blind contour drawing, but my paper kept slipping because I was trying to draw and hold the toad at the same time. Elizabeth reached behind her and picked some packing tape from the shelf. She tore some pieces off the roll and taped my card stock right to the table. Everyone else taped their paper down except Eric who was using a clipboard.  

Eric’s Toad Parts, age 16

      By this time there was a lot of lively banter going on around the table (a little too much for my taste). I really like to draw in a relaxed atmosphere, and let me tell you, this wasn’t it. By this time Eric had finished drawing and commented, “Anyone got a toad lollipop?”
     Anna replied, “Eric, touch only with your eyes.”

Anna’s Christmas Tree  

Suddenly, Anna began to draw a Christmas tree and we all cracked up. “It’s just like you said on your nature journaling interview with Richard Bell,  Mom.” Eric said. He was referring to the example I always use about how children in the symbolic stage of art (generally ages 5-8) usually draw a green triangle to represent Christmas tree, and how completely happy they are doing that. Anna’s spiky triangular tree was somewhere between the symbolic and realistic stages (9-12), but it definitely wasn’t a toad.

     “Nice toad,” Eric said.
     “Everyone’s complimenting me,” Anna said.   
      Then Eric said, “We should make a DVD called “How to Kick Start Your Toad Drawing.”

      “Mmmmm, not a bad idea,” I said.   

       Now lest you think our attempts at drawing the toad were all in vain, they weren’t. Quick sketching a live specimen can be very difficult, but it can also be a lot of fun for kids. Remind them that the goal is not to have a perfect drawing, but to enjoy the process of sketching. This can be very frustrating for more detailed-oriented children and adults, as well, but it’s important to try all kinds of drawing – all different ways – because in doing so you train your eye to see. Whether the end result looks exactly like your specimen is not important, especially if it hops away…  

After the kids finished drawing I took pictures of the toad, and downloaded them to the computer, and then I let him go. A few minutes later my sister called and said that she needed a break and was coming over for a while. I told her to tell my niece Rachel (a talented nature artist) that I had a great amphibian specimen over here for her to draw. When she arrived, I let her choose a picture and she got right to work. As my sister and I chatted, Rachel rendered a highly colorful and stylized picture of the toad from the computer screen. Joan and I were amazed when we saw it. One thing I know is that the toad never looked this good in real life. I’m really glad we took the time yesterday to sketch from life. Not only did we experience many different ways to observe a toad, but we made lots of family memories, too, by drawing  Anna’s amazing “discovery.”        

Drawing Hollyhocks

     The hollyhocks under my kitchen window finally bloomed this week. The pale green buds and delicate blossoms make them one of my favorite flowers to draw. I’ve been in love with hollyhocks for a long time, but this is the first time that I’ve grown them myself. After reading about them in author Sharon Lovejoy’s book Hollyhock Days, I realized that I, too, needed the companionship of hollyhocks.   

      I started my hollyhocks from seed last spring and transplanted them to the flower beds around the fourth of July. As with any other biennial, waiting for a plant to produce that you’ve sowed over a year ago can seem agonizingly slow. But when I heard the children exclaim, “Mom, mom, the hollyhocks have bloomed!” it was ample reward for all of my efforts.

     Typically you see Hollyhocks straddling white picket fences or hugging the sides of barns or garages, but I didn’t want my hollyhocks growing down by the grain barn where I wouldn’t see them very much. Instead, I planted them under the kitchen and bedroom windows where I can enjoy them daily. Here are a few sketches I’ve made so far this season. For the most part I used a blunt Derwent watercolor pencil dry. The color is Crimson Lake 20 and Olive Green 51. I wrote about planting hollyhocks from seed last year. You can read and see the sketches that Elizabeth and I did there.  

After interviewing nature journalist Richard Bell an English nature journalist, the kids and I are trying to journal more and we’re sure enjoying ourselves. You can listen to this inspiring interview online. For ordering information visit our on-line workshops here. And don’t miss our next workshop. It’s coming up Thursday at 1:00 p.m. central time. Hope to see you and your children there. 

Introduction to The Gift of Family Writing by Jill Novak  
Thursday, June 21st
1:00 p.m. Central time

Blessings,
Jill

Bread and Butter Pickles

 

    Yesterday we picked 60 pounds of cucumbers from Robert’s Cucumber Haus. We’re going to make Bread and Butter Pickles, so I had him pick up the necessary ingredients form the store: ground turmeric, ground ginger, canning salt, vinegar and yellow onions. I already had mustard seed and whole peppercorns (from last year’s batch), and sugar. Of course we have plenty of cucumbers. Yes, it’s time to get out the Ball jars, lids, and canning equipment. Why is it always 90 degrees out when you want to can?
It‘s been an incredible year for growing vegetables. I’ve never seen the garden look so lush. We’ve had hothouse temperatures and just the right amount of rain – enough to make the garden look like one of those sci-fi movies with 40 foot tall plants (I exaggerate a wee bit). Actually, the sunflowers are the tallest I’ve ever seen them – I’m guessing they’re about eight feet (tomorrow we must measure them). We’ve harvested some grape tomatoes, but we’re still waiting for those big and juicy “home grown tomatoes.”
Lest I paint too idyllic a picture, we’ve had our share of pests, too. Today Anna and I took duck tape, turned sticky side out, and dabbed up a multi-generational family of squash bugs sipping the life out of one of our zucchini plants. I really haven’t been paying attention and I’m afraid we’ve lost most of our acorn squash. For some reason you don’t see squash bugs until it’s almost too late. As you lift a leaf to see if a plant is infected, they stealthily move to the underside or hide under the stalks close to the ground. We’ve been staying away from toxic bug killers this year, hence the duct tape method. I did read that imitation vanilla repels them, but I don’t have any. We’ll go on patrol again tomorrow and see if we can spot any more and apply a little friendly pressure as we escort them off the premises. I might draw a squash bug for you, but only if I’m inclined. They make me so mad; I hardly feel a desire to record their likeness for posterity.

copyright 2006 by Jill Novak

 

 

 

 

Old-Fashioned Companionship

 

 

I started hollyhocks from seed this spring. The winter was long and hard and I was still recovering from surgery. I felt the need to push new seeds into fresh potting soil, to actively be involved in helping something grow and flourish. Sowing seeds gave me new hope – the kind you feel when the sun melts the last of the dirty snow into puddles and warm air signals the dormant earth to awaken after a long winter’s rest.

I was hopeful, too, that I would physically grow stronger. I know I felt spiritually stronger as I sorted through the seed packets. Starting seeds indoors would give the children the same hope, as we anticipated the warmer weather together.

I thumbed through the box of seeds, some purchased for last year’s garden that never materialized. I pulled out a packet of hollyhocks, and sighed. I had wanted to grow hollyhocks for a long time. I remembered a white picket fence not too far from our farm that was crowded with tall stalks of old-fashioned hollyhocks. They bloomed in every shade of hollyhock flower imaginable: white, yellow, peach, pink, fusia, burgundy, purple, and black. The stalks spilled over the fence and into the sidewalk. I felt pure joy when I gazed on that living palette of color. Why hadn’t I planted my own hollyhocks years ago?

I rearranged the kitchen and turned it into a mini greenhouse. In the morning, sunlight floods the window facing to the east, so I pushed the enamel-topped table that was under it, next to the wall, and pulled the large butcher block with its numerous shelves in front of the window. I sowed seeds for a variety of different herbs and flowers, and even though I thought I had a head start on the planting season, it was late in comparison to more eager gardeners then I. Northern Illinois was still seven weeks from the late frost date of May 21st, but the stores had already sold out of seed starter kits. I ended up buying three peat pot kits with plastic domes. That’s all that was left.

After watering and nurturing my seeds for a few weeks, I witnessed the miracle of tender seedlings pushing up through the potting soil mix. Often, the cracked opened seed would sit like a little hat on the immerging seedlings. I determined right then and there that I would plant my garden with childish abandon and spend as much time in it as I possibly could this summer.

Most of the seeds sprouted, but after they were transplanted few failed to thrive. The peat didn’t break down fast enough in the soil, and no matter how much I watered, they still dried out before the roots became established. I had sowed my hollyhock seeds in three-inch plastic pots, however, because I ran out of room in the other trays. They flourished and were transplanted in the garden by the fourth of July. I knew that I would have to wait a whole year before the flowers bloomed, but at least I finally got them in the ground.

In Sharon Lovejoy’s book, Hollyhock Days, the author quotes her grandmother as saying, “Hollyhocks need the companionship of humans.” I think that describes my attraction to hollyhocks. I’ve come to need the companionship of hollyhocks, their cheerful faces and dainty summer dresses, and the gardens they grow in, as well!

My blog is dedicated to My Great Aunt Mae. In 1946, she self-published a book of poetry entitled Through the Windowpane. On the cover there is a simple illustration of a windowpane surrounded by hollyhocks. I never really knew why that picture meant so much to me until this summer. Because of the research I did for my book, gleaning what I could from my ancestor’s writings, I have made a stronger connection with my Great Aunt through her poetry and my Mother through her memoirs. Somehow hollyhocks are symbolic of that connection, representing old-fashioned companionship – the camaraderie that a new generation feels when they find their family identity expressed in an older relative’s life stories. It’s the company of children eagerly anticipating the creative process, seeing how ideas grow and flourish and are then nurtured into reality on crisp new journal pages or computer screens. It’s the communion of hearts and minds through sentences, phrases, and words.…

Elizabeth’s Journal Entry

My hollyhocks won’t bloom until next year, but my son, Eric, brought me a stalk from our neighbor’s farm the other day when he went fishing there. “Take as many as you want.” Donna said. She’s an artist and a writer. She understands. Elizabeth (age 11) and I drew flowers and seed pods to our heart’s content, and something wonderful happened. She fell in love with drawing hollyhocks…and so did I. There are some flowers that just seem to flow out of the tip of your pencil, almost drawing them selves, and hollyhocks are one of them.

I planted all of my hollyhock seedlings underneath the windows sills of our little white house. As we look through the windowpanes next summer, their old-fashioned companionship will remind us of those who have gone before us, sowing seeds of hope from the tips of their pens. And as I press my pen to paper, I too, will plant seeds of hope for my children and grandchildren yet to be born. Who knows, someday they may need a little old-fashioned companionship from a distant relative who cared enough to plant a colorful garden of words and pictures in her journal, and nourished it with childish abandon.

Copyright 2006 by Jill Novak