Mustard

Jane Edberg copyright 2004

Nanda loved flowers. It was his trademark. If there were flowers he'd pluck them. Sometimes he'd pluck two, to place behind his ears. Not behind one ear because that wasn't complete, but behind both. One for each ear.

Nanda grew up with our garden. Lavender edged our front yard pathway next to tulips and daffodils. The side yard, exploded with color, taken over by wildflowers. Shocks of black-light lobelia lined the ground while the cosmos parachuted above with their lacey arms flying in air. Where there was room, dahlias, marigolds and roses bloomed. In the back, narcissus crowded in tight groups, naked ladies would rise and fall each day, buddleia swayed, and alyssum made a carpet that ran the length of the garden.

Most of the year we would have vases of flowers in every room in the house. We hung pink and yellow roses in rows from the ceiling beams. When the roses dried we'd place the fragrant flower petals in bowls. We'd keep them on our nightstands next to our beds. An odd flower might be set to rest on the kitchen counter or next to the bathroom sink. We had pressed flowers and strung flowers. It was a passion.

When Nanda had his own apartment he would go down to the farmer's market to purchase flowers. He'd arrange their colors symmetrically into an empty juice bottle for his room.

We liked to walk on County Road 102 when the fields were in bloom near Woodland. A road for central valley trucks. An agricultural strip, where safflower and sugar beets flourish and the tilled earth was left to a successful community of mustard plants. Fields of brilliant yellow and green against a backdrop of widescreen sky. A Payne's grey and milk sky, which could suddenly sweep clean to cerulean by the San Quanqine Valley's windy brush.

I shot a lot of photographs out in those fields. Nanda, up to his chest in mustard flowers, before the shutter released, had fastened two bright yellow sprigs of mustard flowers to both sides of his head. He looked natural.

How did this young man get away with it? He never appeared odd or out of place. It suited him. He was a vibrant, charming person who was physically strong and handsome. The flowers seemed to elevate his masculinity.

Recently I was dashing around the park with my eighteen-month-old grand daughter. We passed a huge yellow daisy bush and without a thought I reached over and plucked two flowers from that bush and placed them, one behind each of Lily's ears. Her eyes widened as she gently touched the sides of her head. She was delighted. It then occurred to me that I had, for each one of my children, done exactly that.

Nanda, before he had words to speak had learned this behavior.