A blog about motherhood, marriage and life:
joys and frustrations, blessings and pain.
It’s about looking back, looking ahead,
savoring the moment,
and walking the dog.
Why Wild Trumpet Vine? I was set to go with Dog Walkin’ Mama for my site, but my daughter, who was 12 at the time and therefore something of a web expert, lobbied for a more poetic word combo. My husband advised me (in typical husband fashion) to keep it short and simple. I focused on finding an appealing plant name. My first choices were already taken, usually by software, engineering or web design companies. Yeah, I was late to the party.
I searched for a wildflower that recalled my small-town Kentucky roots. I grew up in an old Atlanta city neighborhood, but I was born in Kentucky. My parents and I moved often in my early years, from small house to apartment to university married housing. The central, unchanging element during that time was my grandparent’s farmhouse in the middle of Kentucky. It was a gracious, welcoming place, a working farm with charming outbuildings, surrounded by green and rolling fields. A gnarled pear tree and an ancient grape arbor shaded the chicken lot. My grandmother’s feisty yard cats played in the huge ferns outside the gear room. Lilacs, peonies, sunflowers and zinnias (domain names already taken) grew in abundance all around.
And then I remembered the trumpet vine. Often considered pesky and invasive, I prefer to think of it as persistent and hearty. Suddenly, I could see the morning sun glinting on its vivid red-orange flowers and deep green foliage set against the white walls of the smokehouse. The image encapsulates the sense of peaceful wellbeing I associate with that idyllic place and time. It’s the memory of a happy childhood in the country, as yet untarnished by the real cares of the world. Like all memories of a vanished era, it’s tinged with the melancholy of loss.
The old house still stands, but it was sold at my grandfather’s death when I was six. The big fields are gone, as is the long gravel driveway that ambled past the shaggy silver maples on the front lawn. Small ranch-style houses encroach on every side. Each return visit, each drive by the old house, brings more pain than pleasure. It’s preferable to see it through the golden haze of memory. Better to remember it by the wild trumpet vine that flourished there once, a long time ago.