I love purple. In the winter months, I often wear an old purple mohair shawl which was woven in Scotland. I inherited it from my seventh grade Sunday School teacher upon her death and I think of her every time I wear it.
She remains in my memory as an indomitable character; a woman by the name of Anne who was given to side quips, declarations about beauty and station, endless questions and admonitions about art, gracious living and most continuously, commentary on flowers. Her beloved wild flowers rested every Sunday morning in plain glass vases on her teaching desk in one of the cold, darkened basement rooms of our church. The floors were deadly slippery, made of darkened squares of tile; one corner of melting snow from someone’s boot in winter or rainwater from an umbrella in spring was all it required to send some poor soul to the floor.
In the coldest months, she adorned her table with arrangements more suited to the snow and winds which raced around the corners of the building; holly berry and evergreen, dried eucalyptus and pine cones. She adored wild flowers and her home and yard were my first introduction to the concept of ‘the English garden’. This form of gardening was slightly shocking for those of us used to the structure of manicured and mowed lawns, trimmed hedges, the flower bed. What appeared to my novice eye as utter chaos, unkempt straggling wild flowers, bright yellow ragweed, reedy strands of growth with eye popping tiny bursts of color running up and down the stems, the chocolate brown and slightly terrifying bull rushes standing side by side with Chinese lanterns ; later proved to be the concept of ‘wildness within structure’. There always needed to be structure, form and order. Within that was where the most glorious wildness could thrive, bloom, spread.
She was a true character; unafraid to command her world, in some of the oddest ways at times. She always referred to her husband as ‘Jo’; the Scottish term for sweetheart. As a child, I thought his name was Jo, but it wasn’t. His name was Charles.
One Sunday morning, she inquired of our class whether or not we were content to remain ‘namby pamby milk toasts’. I confess that at this time in my life, I probably answered in my head, ‘Yes, I am most content to remain in this state. I shall remain a namby pamby milk toast.’
The wild, in order to prosper requires the form and structure. The obstreperous seventh graders in that class, myself included required the strength of odd character, the imposing yet gracious figure in a purple shawl. I remain thankful for the ‘characters’ who shaped and pummeled me into much of what I am today…
690 Saint Paul 