Marigolds - Simplified

When I think about my hometown from when I was a kid, the first thing that comes to mind is dust — the dry, brown dust of late summer. It gets in your eyes and makes you want to cry, gets in your throat, and even between your toes if you're barefoot. I wonder why all I remember is the dust. There must have been green lawns and nice streets somewhere in town, but memories are tricky. They don’t always show things as they are. Instead, they show how things felt. So, I mostly remember the dry, dusty roads and the barren yards of the poor area where I lived.

But there’s one bright thing I remember too, which doesn’t seem to fit — Miss Lottie’s marigolds. Whenever I think of those flowers, I feel a strange mix of emotions. I remember the confusing feelings of being a teenager, where joy and anger and laughter all mixed together as I think back to the moment I crossed into womanhood when I was in Miss Lottie's yard. I think of those marigolds at odd times; they come to my mind especially during long, boring waits, which were common in our poor community during my childhood.

The Great Depression was nothing new to us. My family was part of a struggling community in rural Maryland. We weren't waiting for the prosperity that white people talked about because we didn’t believe those words. We weren't expecting hard work to lead to success, either. Maybe we were waiting for a miracle, something we needed to have the energy to wake up every day and work hard just to earn a little food. But miracles didn’t come easy, so we just kept waiting.

As kids, we didn’t fully understand how poor we were. We didn’t have radios, newspapers, or magazines to know what was happening outside our neighborhood. Now, people might say we were culturally poor and write books about it, but back then, everyone we knew was just as hungry as we were. We were all trapped in poverty, which felt like a cage. We wanted to be free, just like a flamingo made to soar in the sky.

By the time I was fourteen, my brother Joey and I were the only kids left at home. The older kids had married young or moved to the city, and the little ones went to live with relatives. Joey, being three years younger and a boy, was looked down upon by me. Each morning, our parents trudged off down the dirt road; Mom to her job, and Dad to search for work. After doing chores, Joey and I were free to play outside like other kids in our neighborhood. Most of those days blend together in my memories, like a watercolor painting that has run together in the rain.

I recall sitting in the road drawing in the dust until Joey erased it with a swipe of his dirty foot. I remember fishing for little fish in a muddy stream, but they always slipped out of my hands while Joey laughed. Looking back, I felt a strange restlessness at that age, sensing something familiar was ending and something unknown was beginning.

One particular day stands out for me. I was daydreaming under the big oak tree in our yard when Joey and some other kids got bored playing with an old tire. “Hey, Lizabeth,” Joey yelled, wanting me to join them, but I was reluctant. Then, they suggested we look for locusts on the hill. Joey scoffed at this, saying there were none left, and we quickly moved past that idea. Finally, Joey suggested we annoy Miss Lottie, and that got everyone excited.

We must have looked silly — a bunch of kids in worn-out clothes running across the fields to Miss Lottie’s house. Her house was the worst of all our rundown homes, faded and shaky, like it might fall over at any moment. It looked haunted, but we weren’t scared of it, as we were all haunted in our own way. In front of the house, Miss Lottie’s son, John Burke, sat rocking in a chair, lost in his own world.

We would sometimes disturb him for fun. But our main fear and thrill came from Miss Lottie. She was really old, and even though she was once a strong woman, she was now bent and tired-looking. She was known to be tough and never left her yard, and we weren’t sure how she managed day-to-day life. We used to think she was a witch, but we were too grown up for those silly ideas now. Yet, our childhood fears still crept back when we saw her yard.

Miss Lottie’s marigolds were a bright splash of color amid the dullness of her yard. They were beautiful flowers, but we hated them because they stood out too much. They made everything else look worse. We wanted to destroy the flowers, but none of us had the courage to do it — at least, not at first. Joey shouted for everyone to gather stones, and soon everyone else was picking up pebbles from the ground while I hesitated, feeling torn.

As we crouched behind the bushes, ready to attack, the pebbles flew and Miss Lottie screamed at us to go away. We laughed and danced around her in a wild frenzy until her anger made us run back to the bushes. Afterward, I felt a wave of shame wash over me. This was not just fun; this was mean, and it wouldn’t leave my mind.

Later that night during supper, I hardly noticed how quiet my dad was or how late my mom came home. Joey and I ended up arguing, and I went to lay down. In the dark, I overheard a painful conversation between my parents. My father was upset about not being able to provide for us, and he cried, which shocked me. I had never seen him cry before.

His strong presence felt broken. My mother’s soothing voice tried to calm him down, but he was lost in despair. I felt like everything around me had turned upside down and I didn't know where I fit in.

Later, I woke Joey up and decided to go outside. I had to escape my worries and rushed out to Miss Lottie’s yard. As I tore through the marigolds, I was overwhelmed by mixed emotions — sadness about our struggles, confusion about growing up, and everything I felt after hearing my father cry. I destroyed the beautiful flowers because, in that moment, I didn’t care.

Joey pleaded with me to stop, but I was lost in my anger and sadness until I finally sat down among the ruined marigolds. Miss Lottie appeared without anger on her face, just tiredness. At that moment, I realized the flowers weren’t just plants; they were her effort to create beauty despite the decay around her.

That moment marked a shift for me. I understood that Miss Lottie was not a witch, but a woman who had faced life’s hardships and still managed to create something lovely. It was a moment when my childhood ended and my understanding of the world began. The marigolds became a symbol for everything I had lost and learned — and even now, I remember them vividly. I have also learned to plant my own marigolds.