Do you ever experience a brief flashback? I mean, really fleeting, not even a memory but a feeling, a picture, a scent maybe, that is a past moment in time? It is so elusive that it’s gone before you can name it. That’s the way I am about moss rose and Ma Latty’s front porch in the summertime at Etta when I was a young child. For the briefest of instants, I hear the chickens clucking to each other as they share news of the tastiest worms, I hear the rooster announce to one and all that he’s the boss of the barnyard, and I glimpse a small, gray-haired woman, hair pulled back in a bun, apron around her waist, coming to the door to see what her granddaughter is up to out there on the porch. Over it all is a quiet feeling of peace and contentment. I know it must have happened. I know that it is a part of my heritage but to say I remember it…no, I don’t. It’s just there, a part of me and sometimes a scent or a word or the sight of bright little blooms of moss bring it back in a flash.
This tiny flower, although it is in my container garden, isn’t in a container. It’s planted directly into the ground as a border. I don’t call it portulaca even though that is its official name, I suppose. I don’t t even call it moss rose. To me, it is simply “moss”. It is a really old-fashioned flower, one that gives a lot of enjoyment for very little care. Moss is wonderful in a hanging basket. A neat thing about it is that the colors will mix during the summer. A yellow and a red bloom may produce a blossom that is orange or has orange stripes.
Ma always kept an old metal dishpan filled with moss on her porch. Maybe it was more than one dishpan, that part I don’t remember. I just know that moss goes with memories of Ma and summer and a small step back back to experience that long ago time once again.
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