Valentine

As I carried in the last few blossoms picked from Mr. Dewar's late-blooming camellia bushes, I started reminiscing about the varieties I'd known long ago. I actually remember some of their names: it was one of the things I'd learned from Johnny.

My second cousin Johnny Peeples loved gardening, and spent much of his spare time in the yard of the family home at 1203 North Patterson Street. When we children were visiting, we'd beg for rides on his shoulders while he worked.

"Where are we off to today, my lady," he'd ask,"Calcutta or Istanbul?"

We always wanted to inspect the camellias, and we'd debate our preferences: he liked the Professor Sargeants while I gravitated more toward the Jesse Burgesses. We both liked the Peppermints, but the Pink Perfections were much too dainty for my taste.

Johnny expected us to know the answers to Important Questions: what's 8 X 9? (72.) What's the capital of South Dakota? (Pierre.) What's the first line in Rebecca? ("Last night I dreamt I went to Mandelay again.") We memorized a verse or two of "Annabell Lee"; we learned the names of camellias: heady stuff for a five year old.

I'm thinking about all of this as I rummage around for a vase, fill it with water, and plonk in the flowers. The arrangement looks so beautiful and bright and happy when I set it on Mama's old maple end table - a perfect Valentine for my boys lounging on the sofa.