Myrtle Memories

When I was a little girl, Mother and I “borrowed” myrtle and transplanted it to grow on the big hill between our cottage and the lake.  

During the summer months, we went to town to buy groceries and visit the Laundromat once a week.  We usually took an empty shoebox and hand shovel with us and drove home the long way, via the east shore, with the intent of stopping for myrtle.  A narrow, one-car-only dirt lane cut through a forest at the end of East Shore Drive, surrounded by wild myrtle.  That’s where we got our plants.

I wondered if anyone cared.  Mother seemed to think not, that this was unused land and the plants were free for the taking.  Over many years our transplants spread until the hill was mostly covered with a thick blanket of dark green. 

Every spring I looked forward to our first lake visit after the long winter, and sometimes the timing was just right: our myrtle was blooming.  Delicate lavender flowers, like happy little faces, seemed exquisite to me as a child.  A cause for joy.

Now…fast forward many, many years.  When we purchased this house beside another lake fifteen years ago, a small area of myrtle had been overgrown by a tangle of neglected plants near the mailbox.  I cleared the mess and transplanted little clumps of myrtle closer to the house, and now a thriving patch winds its way on either side of the door to greet everyone who enters.

Today my myrtle is blooming, calling me back to precious myrtle memories.