If I can keep a shamrock alive, anything is possible

There was a time when I'd say I couldn’t cook. When I was eighteen-years-old and living on my own, I ate white rice with butter and salt every night for months. Now, anyone who knows me will know that, while I still consider popcorn a major food group, I can throw down in the kitchen with some respectability. People change; they do it all the time.

There was also a time when I would say I couldn’t have kids because I couldn’t even keep a plant alive. 

The best demonstration of that was my St. Patrick Day’s shamrock.

First, I have to tell you about my mother. I’ve been lucky to live near my mother for most of my adult life, and she has always been a major piece of the undergirding for me. While her lessons and support are often profound, she is subtle, because she doesn’t talk much (unlike….me.)  

Many years ago, my mother gave me a beautiful, blooming shamrock on St. Patrick’s Day. My mother is not from Irish descendants. She has Swedish ancestors, mostly. But she married a guy whose parents had come over on the boat. She was the one who upheld the strong traditions of that side of the family. We learned to love Irish Soda Bread, we learned that the Irish have strong traditions of writing and poetry and music. That storytelling was an art. One St. Paddy’s, she made us kids green eggs and ham. Brilliant, if gross, hey?

The shamrock she gave me was healthy and full and had delicate white flowers. I was thrilled. I kept it alive for months. But it was with a sad and somewhat heavy heart that I handed the pot back to my mother: the flowers non-existent, the plant dead.

It was in the fall when I first gave it back to her.

The very next St. Patrick’s Day, the beautiful shamrock again appeared on my table—full, alive, and thriving. She hadn’t gotten a new one; she had nursed the same plant back to life, back to beauty. And she handed that beauty back to me.

Whew...okay. “I can do this,” I remember thinking. 

But I didn’t. Again, by the fall, I would kill the thing. And again, I would hand it back to my mother.

When St. Patrick’s Day rolled around again, she gave me another chance.

And I killed it again!

I just didn’t take the time and energy to pay attention to the thing. I’d forget to water it, or water it too much or just generally neglect it.

But once again, the shamrock was sitting on my table on St. Patrick’s Day.

Maybe the third time is a charm. Maybe I just grew up. Maybe I decided, once and for all, that I can keep a plant alive. Sometimes, it’s in the deciding, isn’t it?

Today, many St. Patrick’s Days have come and gone and I’ve figured out how to keep the plant alive, thriving and beautiful. The little white flowers are wonderful. A couple years ago, I thought I killed it again: there may have been too many people watering it. I knew what to do. I cut the greens back, set it in the sun, and was patient. It came back. I can, officially, take care of my own shamrock.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, Mom. And thanks.