Ann McLaughlin, GPC Online Student, Spring 2008

Ida Mae, The Flower Lady

Ida Mae Wood was seventy-eight years young when we met, and quite a character. She and I started off as neighbors. I was a young mother of a two-year-old and Ms. Wood as I called her, lived alone, across the street and down two houses. We struck up a conversation one spring day, when she brought me fresh from her garden, a bouquet of bright white daisies accented with a stalk of cherry tomatoes in the center of the bunch. I was drawn to her right away. She had a natural twinkle in her bright eyes that spoke of wisdom and a subtle understated way of speaking that was welcoming. Her average size frame was growing frail but her posture was straight and one could almost feel the strength and endurance that still lay within. To meet Ms. Ida Mae Wood was to meet her garden, and I must say, it was the wildest garden you ever saw. She had broccoli growing with petunias, and bell peppers growing in between zinnias and coneflowers. There was a watermelon vine that intermingled with a batch of okra that had moonflowers attached to all of its stalks that would bloom bright white around midnight all summer long. And best of all, Ms. Wood’s meticulous daily gardening duties were always performed in one of her funny almost clown like outfits that consisted of a brightly colored, floral, polyester dress that had a million pulls in it and scuffed up, dirty high heeled shoes.

We soon became fast friends and it seemed everything we did together was an adventure. She not only loved gardening but any outdoor area, and seeing as how none of us had air conditioning, when I had free time from work, it became time to head to one of our favorite spots, the Chattahoochee River. Off we would go in my raggedy-topped convertible. If the sun hit just right I would catch a glimmer out of the corner of my eye and see my elderly companion’s beautiful silver hair blowing in the breeze with her thin, age spotted arm jutting out of the open window. She was eager as a child, looking straight ahead, and her sparkling blue eyes were full of anticipation wondering what new sights awaited us this time at our regular watery haunt. She would jump out of the car like a jackrabbit and grab her worn walking stick. It fit her hand like a glove and was probably as old as she was; then she was ready for our newest discoveries as we prepared to stroll through the forest. She always had me bring along a folding shovel that she had gotten from the army surplus store, just in case she found some little plant that she needed to add to her loaded plot around her house. The matriarch of our threesome was a natural leader and had a specific destination in mind. She headed straight into a winding path where we could feel the temperature drop the deeper we went into the woods. With a determined stride, she walked along the tributary toward the refreshing waters of the swimming hole. Suddenly, she signaled me with a silent outstretching of her crooked arthritic hand to be still and quiet. Up ahead she could see a female mallard sitting patiently on her clutch of green spotted eggs. Ms. Wood slid her old pumps off as she quietly settled herself onto a fallen log adding a few more pulls to her synthetic garb. She wiggled her bare feet into the soft dark soil and lifted my young daughter onto her bony lap to begin one of her gentle explanations about momma birds and their babies. She always had some sweet story to tell, and I must confess I sat as attentively and enraptured as my young one to hear an ageless story told by one of my elders.

We were constant companions and ate most meals together. At breakfast, lunch or dinner, she would don a wild looking chapeau along with her standard knit attire. It would be covered in flowers and feathers and bits of colorful fabric, basically what ever she picked up along the way. She would show up with her picnic basket in hand full of many surprises, some edible some not, but everything always fresh from that ‘crazy garden’. I think she must have done experiments with cross pollinating some of her plants or maybe they did it willingly, but she would giggle with delight when I would inquire if one of her odd ball looking items on our menu was a fruit, vegetable, or flower? The meal was the minor part of the gathering. She seemed to relish in the companionship and conversation. Her manner of attentive listening and responding with interest always made you feel important, valuable and probably smarter than you really were.

Through our years of friendship, I was raising my daughter and as with most parents there are times when you are at your wits end with your children’s behavior. I would seek out the sage advice and experience of my aged friend on whatever was the disciplinary topic of the moment. Ms. Wood had a standard reply that never varied.

“Take her in your arms and tell her that you love her”. It took me twenty years to fully appreciate the value, power, and lasting truth in her simple statement.
Ms. Wood died at the age of eighty-six and my affections for her will last my lifetime. “The journey is as important as the destination” she would say, and I smile as I remember that no matter where we were going, if we passed a body of moving water, something more than a puddle, she would have to get out and get her feet wet. I never asked why, it was always the joy in the moment that was understood. How profoundly lucky I was to catch a ride on the tail end of her life’s journey.

Ms. Wood was my friend, and though she was an eccentric woman and visually entertaining, her simple insights and her little patch of land were role models for harmonious living that taught me many valuable life lessons and like one of her flowers, they were always delivered with kindness and tended with loving attention.