Peonies, long distance

I don’t know why I plant peonies; I am rarely there to see them bloom. Their firm buds wait for me to leave before they explode into hundreds of tender pink layers, their heads drooping like tipsy ladies at a lawn party. Sometimes, I call my neighbors long-distance and ask them to describe this year’s bounty. I find comfort in knowing someone is there to appreciate their achievement.

The second week in June, when the peonies bloom in Sullivan County, usually finds me in California with my brother’s children and his widow. Since his death, more than a decade ago this month, I am their last link to our side of the family. It is the time I most want to be with them, in their suburban home in Southern California, picking oranges from the backyard.

The year he died, I stood in for him as his son Ben graduated from middle school, only days after the funeral. I have missed more celebrations than I have attended though; Abby’s dance recitals and her star turns in “The Sound of Music” and “A Chorus Line,” for example. Last year I was there in April, a few days after her 18th birthday,

This year, Ben was graduating from college on June 12, the same date Chris died. Ben wanted me to be there. So I flew to L.A. to join my sister-in-law Judith and my niece Abby on a 700-mile weekend road trip to see him “walk the walk” for his Bachelor of Arts in Linguistics from the University of California at Santa Cruz. You learn a lot about your feelings for your family in a 700-mile road trip.

We made the journey in Abby’s Honda CR-V, the modern equivalent of a dune buggy, but “way” more comfortable. With us Moms up front and Abby nestled in the back-seat, we made our way past the suburbs of Orange County to the hippie enclaves of Northern California, snaking through velvet hills (uncommonly green this year), sometimes skirting the blue Pacific sea. The road we took was simple, mostly straight and long.

The miles of fragrant strawberries gave way to gourmet lettuces and artichokes (the pride of Castroville) and to endless vineyards with their soldiered rows of espaliered grape vines. Always there were the migrant workers, bandannaed against the sun and chemicals, bent like yogis with flat backs and straight legs, arms outstretched, picking, picking, always picking, reminding us of our privileged status as members of the middle class.

We laughed together, giddy from traveling, snacked incessantly, drank Coke and listened to music, or to Abby singing, or sometimes, in quiet, only to our thoughts.

We are three women, I thought, united by a man we all loved, who is now gone, and by another who is on the cusp of a new life, and we have chosen to be together. There is a peace in our relationship, forged from understanding more than any truce. We have survived what others were felled by. We are grateful to be traveling this road together. Beyond that, and our familial love, we like each other’s company.

Standing in for my brother once again, I watched as his only son, at 6’5” like a redwood among cypress, filed downhill with his class, out of the forest that nestles the UC campus, and down to the stage, where the hills give way to the endless ocean glistening in the distance.

June 12 has now come full circle for our family, giving us joy to supplant the loss. Chris didn’t live to see his children blossom into adults, but even in his absence, they have. I think of my peonies, blooming out of sight, delighting others with their beauty and fulfilling their destinies.