Peony
This morning I tossed the last bloom in the trash. It was a soft cream color, the petals limp and lifeless, its stem struggling to suck up the water it was immersed in. Before I released it into the dirt filled waste bin I took one last sniff. I snuggled my nose deep into the faded bloom and inhaled. It was still there that undeniable scent of peony. The softness of the petals now crisp, yet the scent still lingered, barely. I tried to hold on to that scent as it will be another full year until I am able to harvest the peony blooms from my small mountain yard again.
I began cutting the blooms from my peonies about a month ago. Typically May and June are peony season. For us living at over 7800 feet in altitude, it is usually June. I have been known to place umbrellas over my buds during the freakish snowstorms of late May here in the high country. Tenderly caring for them and genuinely excited to see the sliver of openings in their tight bud ball reveal the beginnings of the bloom.
During the bloom season I carefully select the ones that are in their full glory, bursting with beauty, their petals smooth and soft and full, their stems barely able to keep them upright. I carefully trim the clipped blooms and place them in glass jars around the house. I love walking by the crystal hutch in our dining room, on my way to retrieve our vacuum and suddenly my nose is tickled. The sweetness entering my nose, my brain quickly trying to place it. Momentarily “what is that smell”? Passes through my thoughts, then just as quickly it is identified and I remember the jar of peony blooms I set out a few days ago on top of that hutch. Or when I am in bed reading it catches me a bit off guard, unexpecting, trickling into my nostrils and then the question of identification, quickly followed by the recognition of the smell, and at once feeling refreshed and feeling my shoulders soften just from the scent.
They say that scent transports you to emotional memories.
We had rented a house on the island of Nantucket. Nantucket was the home I never knew I missed. Our four rowdy kids running around the large house, the beach, the town. Exploring the many streets on our bikes, cruising the flat winding coastal roads. At the local farmers market I bought the largest bunch of peonies I could hold. Securing them into my bike basket, I cared for them on the transport to the house. I would ease my bike slowly over the bumps and turns being sure not to bend stems, or ruffle their precious blooms.
I filled several jars with the flowers and put the biggest collection of them on our night stand directly beside the bed. After full days of peach pies, ocean swimming and bike riding, each night I would inhale the deeply sweet, intoxicating scent of them. As a lighthouse beam would swoop gently across our dark bedroom walls and reflect easily across our bedroom window, I would catch a sniff of my favorite flower. I would reach out to touch their smooth petals. Occasionally when a petal would fall from the bloom I would take it and gently rub it across my skin, desperately trying to supplant their nectar, their gentle moisture and subtleness into my own sun parched skin.
We recently purchased a small lot in the old western agricultural town of Paonia CO. Peonía being the spanish word for Peony. Paonia was settled in 1880 by Samuel Wade, Paonia is named for the peony roots he carried with him from Ohio. The town has 1500 inhabitants and at least that many peonies bushes, and of course, peaches. Our lot is close to the downtown area, and currently it is a pretty ugly site, but we have big plans! One of which is to plant as many peony bushes across the front of our yard as is physically possible.