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| A lovely harvest of buds for your table or vase |
Iris Harkins, the only other
Iris in our large church congregation, often sat behind my family of five
during Sunday’s worship service. A friendly woman with a British accent, early
on she said her husband Frank gathered with our pastors on the platform.
Reverend
Frank Harkins sometimes opened the service with his brogue, prayer, and anecdotes.
A young mother of three girls, I thought Frank Harkins the ideal character to
lead youth and racetrack ministries. I didn’t know then he fled an abusive home
at age ten.
In our early years of worship together in Detroit,
I became acquainted with his five daughters who “wormed their way” into Frank Harkins’
heart. To be cliché, his smiling Irish eyes gave him away.
That
my father was born an O’Brien endeared me more so to Frank Harkins. And that
Iris Harkins birthed two redheads and three brunettes earned my awe reserved
for my mother of five different and independent females.
Pauline,
the Harkins’ eldest and first brunette, befriended me before we moved our home
from Detroit to the country in 1989. Our oldest daughter, troubled with substance
abuse, had already left home.
One
July day, Pauline drove north to visit and stroll our Natural Beauty Road
together. She noticed day-lilies budding amongst other native wildflowers.
“Did
you know day-lily buds are edible?” she asked.
“No.”
I promptly
planted day-lilies in my gardens.
Not
long after, Pauline married and moved to Newport, Kentucky where her husband
began renovating their historic home. For several years, Pauline extended invitations
to my husband and me. When Matthew arrived, all the more reason for a reunion.
At
last, the weekend of July 4, 1996 lined up for us both. Matthew aimed for
kindergarten in the fall. July 5, en route to Pauline’s home, my family met with
my Kentucky sister’s family at King’s Island. She broached the dreaded subject.
“Mom
found out Becky’s using drugs and wants her out of the house.”
At an
inconsiderably late hour, Pauline met my husband, middle daughter, and me at
her door. She led us upstairs to our rooms before she asked me to the kitchen.
There we prayed for Becky and attempted to gain some peace and understanding.
Hours
later, Pauline knocked on the door where my husband and I slept. I knew by my friend's face that something terrible had happened. She leaned against the doorjamb.
Somehow,
my gracious friend announced our firstborn’s death.
Today,
I read Iris Harkin’s obituary. Born February 6, 1922, fifteen days after my
mother’s birth, Iris lived thirteen years after my mother passed, and fifteen
years beyond Frank’s departure for Glory.
I
slide open my kitchen door to the scent of rainfall, the fecund promise of
another resurrection. Although the deer nibbled my day-lilies again, there'll be enough buds to harvest for a delicious memorial.
Dear
Reader, the last Iris in this congregation of believers, I do this for Pauline
and her sisters, daughters who wormed their way into their parents’ heart.
