Red Tulips

One early spring morning, two springs ago, I looked out my back window and noticed a red flower in my garden, peeking above a boulder, trying to get my attention. 

Now how did that get there?  I know that I didn’t plant a red plant anywhere. 

I put on my shoes and strolled to the middle of my yard. Out by the blooming Dogwood I discovered a lone, red tulip, dipping and swaying in the gentle breeze, waltzing in a juvenile dance of joy, nodding to the early morning sun, delighted just to be in this world. 

“Well, good morning, little one,” I murmured. “How did you get planted here and who can I thank for giving me this beautiful gift?” 

The little tulip kept nodding her sweet little red head as if I should know. I didn’t know of anyone in the neighborhood who had red tulips except my neighbor, my granddaughter, so I texted her.

“If you are looking for your runaway red tulip, she’s gone on a walk about and has planted herself in my backyard.  Do you want her to return back to your garden or shall we let her stay where she is planted?” 

She laughed and gave her permission for me to adopt little red tulip where she remains in her third year of growth. 

Last Spring, one early May morning, when the sun was just flirting with day, I was standing on my back deck when my gaze landed on another red flower growing in the flower bed along the fence. 

Now how did that get there?  I know for sure that I didn’t plant a red flowering plant in that garden.

I put on my shoes and walked to the side bed that lounges under the oak trees and discovered a red tulip dipping and swaying in the subtle breeze, eager to beautify the world we live in.

“Good morning, my sweet love, how did you get planted here and who shall I thank for the gift of your presence? 

The little tulip, nodding her head, looking so pleased to play such a major role in beautification, remained silent.  Text to granddaughter:  “Another red tulip.  Does she have your permission to stay?” 

Text from granddaughter:  “All tulips need siblings, so let her stay.” 

This morning, I was again standing on my back deck admiring the indescribably various shades of green that only spring can produce.  I was preparing to send a greeting to the two little red tulips when my eyes came to rest on, what is that? Another little red tulip?  Growing about 20 feet from last spring’s little red tulip was another sibling.  This is too weird.  How did that red flower get there?  Once again I put on my shoes and excitedly, almost ran, to the flower bed along the fence.  And right there, in the middle, amid the luscious greens of spring, dancing, dipping, and swaying in the gentle breeze of this glorious morning is another little red tulip, delighted to be in this world.

“How wonderful to meet you little sweetie.  Did you arrive by the same route as your sisters?” 

Or am I senile in my old years, talking to tulips, and don’t remember planting you?  Ridiculous, I muttered to myself.  I would know if I planted red tulips as red used to be my least favorite tulip color.

The little red tulip, nodding her head, dipping and swaying in the gentle breeze on this sensational early morning, indicated her pure joy in joining her sisters in this on-going beautification project.

Text to Granddaughter: “It seems to be a spring ritual that still another of your red tulips has journeyed from your garden, with or without your permission. Shall we let her stay with her other two sisters?”

Text from Granddaughter “I have heard that Red Tulips have a mind of their own and at this stage of parenting I’m too weary to discipline runaways.

Since, as the Grandmother Tulip, you are allowing them to remain in your flower bed, you must accept full responsibility for their behavior, no returning home if they become tired of living there.

They require feeding, watering, and nurturing, a full time responsibility, as you know.  

It’s up to you to know if you can handle errant tulips at your age.”  Text to Granddaughter:  “Okey Dokey.” 

I wander over to the flower bed and as I am welcoming the third little red tulip and explaining the rules of behavior, growth, and etiquette, I am greeted by my resident gray squirrel, Sassy S.  He chirps wildly at me, scolding because I have ventured into his territory that he guards with a vengeance. 

Or perhaps he was asking me if I enjoyed his Mother’s Day gifts these past three years. I have learned to love the color red in tulips, on a brilliant sun-filled morning, amidst the vivid green of new beginnings, snuggled under the promise of azure blue skies, full of promise, honoring Mothers.