The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

Outside, the club members gathered under the cucumber tree—so old and large and beautiful that it was one of the town’s landmarks—to witness the unveiling of the freshly painted wooden signboard. Myra May Mosswell did the honors. “Ta-ta-ta-TA-ta-ta!” she cried, imitating a trumpet, and pulled off the bedsheet that Lizzy had brought to drape over the sign. Beaming, she flung her arm around Beulah Trivette. “Didn’t Beulah do us proud, ladies? Just look at that beautiful basket of dahlias!”


Lizzy peered down into her Kodak, focused, and snapped. Beulah (whose talents as a hairdresser extended to all things artistic) had really outdone herself this time. She had painted THE DARLING DAHLIAS in big fancy letters, in vivid green on a white background, arching the words over a basket of dahlias in every imaginable color: red, yellow, orange, peppermint-striped, purple. It was really too bad that the newspaper photo would be just plain old black-and-white, Lizzy thought. If people wanted to see the sign in full color, they’d have to walk over to Camellia Street for a look.

“It was nothing, really,” Beulah said in reply to Myra May. She tried not to look too pleased.

“Nothing?” Verna Tidwell chuckled. “Nothing short of gorgeous, Beulah. Beyond words.” A wordless murmur of assent rippled through the group.

But Voleen Johnson had words, as usual. “Tad bit gaudy for my taste,” she said, putting her head on one side. “Too many dahlias in that basket”

Lizzy sighed. When Voleen Johnson climbed onto her high horse, the best thing you could do was ignore her. “Okay, everybody,” she called. “I’ve got a good shot of Beulah and Myra and the sign. So if you’ll line up behind them, I’ll get the rest of you.”

Everybody dutifully lined up and put on their picture-taking faces. Lizzy looked through the camera, thinking that they were a fine group, in their spring dresses and perky straw hats—no more of those silly felt cloches that hugged your head and smashed your hair. They weren’t spring chickens, though, none of them. At thirty, Alice Ann Walker was the youngest. Aunt Hetty, nearly eighty, was the eldest, now that dear Mrs. Blackstone was gone. Next oldest was Mrs. Johnson, at fifty-five. The rest were clumped in the middle, give or take a few years.

“I believe I’ll just stand here,” Mrs. Johnson said, planting herself comfortably next to Myra May in the front row. She always put herself out front, and why not? She was the wife of George E. Pickett Johnson, owner of the Darling Savings and Trust Bank. What’s more, she was the spitting image of Mrs. Herbert Hoover, marcelled silver hair and all. Everybody thought so. Mrs. Johnson must’ve thought so, too, because she framed the cover of the May 13, 1929, issue of Time magazine, the one with Mrs. Hoover on it, with a string of real pearls wound around her throat and looped artistically down the front of her black dress. Lizzy knew this because Danzie, who did the Johnsons’ laundry on Mondays, was sister to Sally-Lou, who worked for Lizzy’s mother. Danzie had told Sally-Lou (and Sally-Lou had told Lizzy) that the First Lady was hanging right beside Mrs. Johnson’s dressing table.

“A tad too many dahlias,” Mrs. Johnson repeated, putting up a hand to push her Mrs. Hoover white hair under her stylish purple hat, which she’d had made for her by a milliner in Atlanta, rather than Fannie Champaign, who had a shop right on Darling’s courthouse square and made hats for every other lady in town. She said it a little softer this time, but Aunt Hetty Little was standing right behind her and heard it.

“That’s only your opinion, Voleen,” Aunt Hetty said tartly. “If you had your way, there’d be nothing but lilies growin’ in this world.” She raised her voice. “Beulah, those dahlias are just fine. You have done us right proud, dear. Now, smile, ever’body, so Lizzy can get our picture and we can get on with our meeting:”

This time, everyone agreed with Aunt Hetty, so enthusiastically that Beulah Trivette turned pink with pleasure and Mrs. Johnson pressed her lips together. Lizzy smiled as she snapped the photo. Aunt Hetty was the only person in town who could use that tone to Mrs. George E. Pickett Johnson. This was because Aunt Hetty really was Mrs. Johnson’s aunt, although the Littles were a big family and Hetty was either aunt or cousin or other kin to just about everybody in town. And of course Aunt Hetty was right about the lilies, because Mrs. Johnson loved lilies with a passion, but only the pure white ones, never those common orange ditch lilies that everybody else had in abundance. The Johnson garden was full of white flowers, and Mrs. Johnson sent a big bouquet to the bank every morning all summer long, for the table by the front door.