I’ve never understood the difference between “annual” and “perennial”.  Oh, I know what the WORDS mean, but I just don’t understand WHY they have their respective definitions.

Let me take this back a step before anyone starts sending me Greek or Latin derivations.

When we do something every year, we call it an annual event.  But certain plants which don’t return every year are called “annuals“.  Does that really make sense?

My mother rejected the notion that a plant should be discarded after a single season.  She would haul the potted plants into the house every fall, and in fact grew many of them right in the house, on shelves in the nine-window sunroom.  That room had been truncated by the installation of a sliding door closet.  At some point, she dismantled the closet and tore the drywall from in front of the windows at that end of the room to let sunlight shine from a third direction, the better to nourish the ivy, impatiens, begonias and succulents that she grouped on the shelves which my father built or assembled.

When  my mother died, my brother Stephen and I counted the plants in the sunroom.  Two-hundred sixty-two.  The siblings divided most of them among us; a few remained but did not survive my father’s haphazard ministration.

I have an annual ritual of buying plants on Mother’s day and potting them on the porch.  In the past, others in the household would be part of the ritual as my only request for Mother’s Day.  For several years, I’ve not had company during this pleasant undertaking.  But I didn’t complain; the world turns, things happen, people change.  Instead of sulking, I journeyed to Soil Service, filled my cart, and puttered away on my deck.  This spring, my friend Brenda and I made the Soil Service run together, happily encouraging each other to cultivate our gardens.  But I did the potting alone, sinking my hands into rich soil, quietly humming, letting the spring air fill my lungs.

Every fall, I drag into the house whichever plants  seem likely to last the winter indoors.  This year’s warm  autumn has left my porch plants blooming into November.  Yesterday I dead-headed the begonias and petunias which still seemed full of life and carefully cradled each one in the crook of my bad arm.  It took a half an hour to get the seven plants into the house but now their lingering beauty graces the tables and shelves of my home.

As I surveyed the cheerful aspect of my annuals, I decided that I get my relentless nature from my mother. I get a lot from my mother:  The shape of my body, the color of my hair, my fierce loyalty, my emotional myopia.  I’m content with all of this; though some of her traits have not served me well.  But I did like her hopeful outlook, demonstrated by what I’ve come to view as Mother’s definition of “annual”:  

Lasting year after year.

That’s me:  the annual woman.