I have tried several methods for drying roses and other plants, but my overarching preference is to dry flowers naturally  No chemicals, No silicone, No microwaver–I just hang my plants upside down in a dark place and wait a few days for them to dry au natural.

My grandparents in the early 1900s.

Much of what I do in my art, my writing, and my garden are efforts to preserve my past–especially the memory of my grandmother.

When I was a child, I lived behind my grandmother’s house, and at least twice a day, I journeyed there.

Miy grandmother planted a massive stand of hollyhocks at the back of her property, and as soon as I reached the hollyhocks, I felt safe. If only for a minute or two, I would crawl into the thicket of massive plants and swaddle myself with blooms. I called this My Hollyhock House. My grandmother was a simple German lady who had a true Cottage  Garden. From the hollyhocks, I would meander through her morning glories, her iris, her poppies, and all the other flowers she grew. By the time I reached my grandmother’s back door, I felt that I had reached the gates of heaven. I wrote a poem about that experience:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Calico Cotton
by Jacki Kellum

I’ve reached the shore of my grandmother’s door,
The one from the garden, inside.

Oh, sunny-sweet back room
Of my grandmother’s loom,

The place in the dirt
Of my grandmother’s skirt,

In your warm summer lap,
Hold me tight; I will nap,

On my grandmother’s porch,
Let me hide.

©Jacki Kellum October 9, 2015

My grandmother’s wringer washer tubs were covered by a skirt that she had sewed of calico cotton. That is one reason that I named my poem “Calico Cotton.”  The other reason has to do with the fact that I grew up in a small, rural community that was surrounded by cotton farms I myself am the Calico Rose and my grandmother was, too Unlike me, my grandmother was a wonderful housekeeper. She had probably washed, starched, and ironed that calico  skirt cover 1,000 times; and my grandmother’s porch smelled like freshly laundered sheets that had been hung out on the clothesline to dry.

As I passed from my grandmother’s porch into her kitchen, a closet was next to the door. That closet was where my grandmother dried her flowers and saved her seeds.

My grandmother stored her sunbonnet at the top of that closet.  She always wore her bonnet and her duster out to work in her garden. A duster was a type of denim jacket worn by cowboys in the Wild West.

At the end of every garden season, my grandmother would collect the seeds from her flowers and allow them to dry in the closet where she hung her denim jacket and bonnet.  She stored the seeds in little brown paper sacks. She had used those sacks so very many times that they felt like suede.  I wish I could open that closet door now. I know that it still smells like my grandmother there. I wrote a poem about the place where my grandmother dried her flowers:

Grandma’s Closet
by Jacki Kellum

The bonnet’s at the very top
The duster’s down below.
Fancy flowers are dangling there.
They’re hanging in a row.

Breathe the sunshine, weeds, and dirt,
Catch the seeds from Grandma’s skirt,
Store them in you summer shirt,
Plant them, let them grow.

©Jacki Kellum November 24, 2015