Pistil-Packin’ Mamas

Pistil-Packin’ Mamas

A meditation on women’s botanical names

By Ross Howell Jr.

On a recent trip to Blowing Rock, my wife, Mary Leigh, and I breakfasted at a favorite spot, Sunny Rock, where we were served by a woman named Heather. That evening we dined at Bistro Roca, another favorite, where we were served by a woman named Ivy.

I couldn’t remember coming across a woman with a plant name in quite a while and certainly not two in the same day. That got me to thinking about women’s botanical names I’d come across over the years. I mentioned this to Mary Leigh as we got in the car after dinner.

“Um,” Mary Leigh said, scrolling through business emails on her phone, “There was a girl at my elementary school named Poppy.”

“That’s a good one,” I said.

“Honey, I need to answer some of these,” Mary Leigh said. Hers is the practical mind in the family, so she wisely ignores my flights of fancy.

Alone with my thoughts, I recollected my great-aunt Flora, and her daughter, Myrtle, who died young. There was a cousin Violet — on my grandfather’s side, I believe. Oh, and another cousin, Iris.

Let’s see. In high school, there was a very pretty girl named Camellia. One of my cousins dated a woman named Rose.

Back in Greensboro, I brought the subject up with my barber, Danny Vannoy, who’s within a day or two of being exactly my age. The pity for barbers is they can’t really ignore you.

“Let’s see, I dated a Holly and a Ginger,” Danny said, trimming a sideburn.

“And I knew a Hazel,” he continued.

“Those are good ones,” I said. “I remember a girl at church named Fern.”

“A waitress I know has a girlfriend named Sage,” Danny said.

“There was a skinny girl in elementary school we called Sticks,” I said.

Danny and I were looking at each other in his big barber’s mirror. He rubbed his chin.

“I don’t think you can count that one,” Danny said.

“I guess not,” I said. I puzzled for a moment.

“How about Peaches?” I asked. “You know, like in Peaches and Herb. The song ‘Reunited?’”

“Sure, that one counts,” Danny said.

“There was a girl named Laurel I met at college,” I continued.

“That’s a good one, too,” Danny said.

“In one of my writing classes there was a woman named Indigo,” I said.

“Isn’t that a color?” Danny asked.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “But the dye comes from a plant.”

Danny nodded agreement in the mirror.

“Seems like you don’t hear the botanical names like back in the day,” I said.

Danny unclipped the paper collar and lifted the barber’s apron from my lap.

“I guess not,” he said.

“Funny, I never met a Daisy,” Danny mused.

“Me, neither,” I said. “Or a Lily. Seems like at our age, a fellow’d met a Daisy or Lily, doesn’t it?”

We pondered this as I unfolded my wallet and handed Danny his payment.

“Or a Petunia,” I continued.

“Well, I don’t know about a Petunia,” Danny said.  OH

Have plant names among family, friends, or acquaintances? Favorite plants? Email Ross Howell Jr. at ross.howell1@gmail.com. (Please don’t miss the number 1 in the email address. There’s a Ross Howell working on a graduate degree, and he doesn’t need extra interruptions!)

Recommended Posts
Contact Us

We're not around right now. But you can send us an email and we'll get back to you, asap.

Not readable? Change text. captcha txt
0

Start typing and press Enter to search