Auntie Josephine planted the heirloom Bachelor Button seeds along the southern side of the old horse barn. For the past thirty falls she would harvest the seed from the summer’s plantings, trick them into dormancy, and store them away from the insects and birds flying about looking for a quick autumn meal. The following spring and summer her yard erupted in blankets of blues, reds, yellows, purples, greens, and oranges. The flowers would be bombarded by orioles and hummingbirds flying in for an early treat. Her husband, Otis Hillary, O H for short but everyone still called him Uncle Cy, said before he died seven years ago, that Josie— only he ever used that term of endearment— would light up their homestead like St. Elmo’s Fire.
Josie smiled like she did every time she recalled Cy. It seemed to her that the last time she thought of him was long ago, too distant, like lover’s waving goodbye through the window of a train pulling out of the station. She shrugged and tried to purchase more dirt with her hand shovel. She could see her breath as she labored into the unforgiving soil.
Marty walked up the driveway, it was his normal morning routine to check in on Auntie Josephine and make sure she was up and moving along into her day. Usually she was cleaned up, had her face put on, dressed for coffee, and ready to roll. Sometimes though, he had to get her going. He loved to help. He would even tell his wife it was the only way he could order his world. Memories of the past, he explained, melded with a strong sense of heritage make our present. She would look at him, smile, and say, that is nice dear.
Marty’s feet scrapped frozen gravel as he rounded the driveway’s corner and buttoned the top two spots of his flannel coat. There Aunt Josephine worked, firmly rooted to the ground. He knew her trick knee, joint arthritis, and tired back might keep her there, frozen to the ground. Her paisley housecoat was half buttoned and one breast dangled threateningly away from the flown open front. She wore one shoe.
But, Josephine’s focus was true. Spring teased early in northern Minnesota, and the week prior she had noted the ruts from the barn runoff that made their way to the small stream just beyond the hay stall. She saw a couple of robins flying back from someplace warm roost in a couple of aspen trees bolting heavenward. She knew it was time to plant. Josephine was drawn back to the present by movement on the edge of her vision. She dropped the hand shovel down into the dirt— it clanked like a screwdriver on concrete. She brushed her fingers on her housecoat, they stung, red, they felt raw, exposed. Josephine raised her eyes and admired the man walking up the driveway.
“Oh, you are home early, darling, lets rest on the deck.”
“Aunt Josephine, are you okay? You are going to catch your death out here.”
“Call me Josie, darling, I love it when you do.”
“Aunt Josephine, we need to get you inside,” Marty said. No one called her Josie except Uncle Cy.
And that is how he found her he told his wife later— outside, forty degrees, one shoe, a half buttoned housecoat, furiously scooping at the dirt, and bouncing heirloom Bachelor Button seeds off the unforgiving March soil.
