The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

Startled, Bessie put a hand to her back and straightened up, glancing toward the west. “Gracious, Liz,” she exclaimed. “That looks like a lollapalooza.” She frowned down at the row she was hoeing. “I guess these beans can wait. But we’d better plan on putting in some sort of trellis. Kentucky Wonders are like Jack’s beanstalk. They aim for the skies. If we wait much longer, we’ll have a mess of snaky green vines all over the ground.”


“Those are the seeds your cousin sent you from Birmingham?” Lizzy asked. Good seeds weren’t always easy to buy. The best often came from friends and family.

Bessie nodded. “She saved them from her last year’s garden. Says they’re the best green beans she’s ever grown.”

“I’m sure we can come up with some cane poles and twine for a trellis,” Lizzy said. She glanced back at the clouds. “But let’s work on it later. I’m not worried about getting wet—we won’t melt—but I don’t like for us to be out in the garden when the lightning is flashing.” She was remembering poor Mr. Burdette, who had been struck dead by lightning when he walked out to the pasture to bring the cows home for milking one afternoon. Spring storms could be violent.

Bessie gave the sky another apprehensive glance. “And let’s hope for no hail,” she said. “I’d sure hate to see all our little plants beaten to death.”

“I’ve just put in two more rows of okra, Liz,” Verna called, coming along the path. She turned and pointed toward the far side of the garden, where an unpainted board fence and a row of crepe myrtles marked the edge of the clubhouse property. “And there’s room for three more rows. By the time we get done planting, there’ll be enough okra to feed everybody in Darling.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Ophelia asked. “Enough for everybody?” Ophelia had a hoe in one hand and a rake in the other, and her round, sweet face was sweat-streaked and dirty.

“There can never be enough okra,” Bessie said emphatically.

“I suppose,” Ophelia said. To Lizzy, she added, “The last of the English peas will need to be picked in the next few days, Liz. They’ve stopped blooming, so that will be our final picking. And there are more carrots and beets to pull.” She paused. “I hope everybody comes to help, the way they did last time. It’s a lot more fun when we have a good turnout.”

“Many hands make light work,” Bessie observed sensibly, and Lizzy smiled. She imagined Bessie’s brain as a massive library of adages that were filed under various headings, at least one for every occasion. Of course, as the unofficial historian for the town of Darling, Bessie had many other things filed away in her mind, such as important events in the past, historically important sites, and family trees.

Verna sniffed. “It would be nice if we would all show up,” she remarked, with an edge to her voice.

Lizzy knew what Verna was thinking. The Dahlias had hosted a work party two weeks before, and thirteen out of the fourteen club members had attended. (Mrs. George E. Pickett Johnson was the missing person. She had offered to send her colored maid, Flossie, but Lizzy had declined. She knew Flossie and liked her, but she thought that Mrs. Johnson should come herself, not send her paid help.) Some of the Dahlias had picked and shelled peas, some had harvested lettuce and the last of the spring spinach, and some had pulled carrots, beets, and green onions. There was plenty for the Dahlias to share, as well as a big batch of fresh produce for the Saturday-morning farmers’ market, where they had a table. What they didn’t sell, they gave away when the market closed. Lizzie had noticed that some of the poorer folks hung around until closing time and were glad to get whatever they could.

“We’ll need to organize another garden party, I guess,” Lizzy said. Organizing came easily to her—the reason, she supposed, that she’d just been elected for another term as club president. “This time, maybe Mrs. Johnson will come.”

“Don’t forget that we also have to organize a planting party at the cemetery next week,” Bessie cautioned. “Miss Rogers will never forgive us if we don’t get those Confederate roses into the ground before the Confederate Day ceremony.”

“Hibiscus mutabilis,” Verna and Ophelia said in unison, and they all laughed. Miss Rogers, the town librarian and a longtime Dahlia, always insisted on using the Latin names for plants. Two years before, she had taken cuttings from everyone’s garden and propagated fourteen Confederate roses (not really roses, but hibiscus). The young shrubs were now large and sturdy enough to be planted along the front fence at the Darling Cemetery. And since Confederate Day (an important Darling holiday, as it is across the South) was coming up shortly, it was time to get the plants settled in their new home. Summer would be along soon—not a good time for transplanting.

Verna looked up at the sky and held out her hand, palm up. “Was that a raindrop?”