straight , fibrous stalks and stands out a bright periwinkle against Queen Anne ’ s lace and black-eyed Susans . Mom loved chicory and always included it in her wildflower bouquets . God help you if you made the mistake of calling chicory a weed around Mom .
On the morning of Mom ’ s funeral my brother went to the homeplace and gathered a bouquet of flowers to place on the church piano . I left home headed to the service and saw a tiny smudge of blue along the road . I wasn ’ t sure of what I saw , but as I turned onto U . S . 460 toward Giles , I saw a flood of chicory and Mom ’ s favorite verse of “ Great is Thy Faithfulness ” sprung to mind :
Summer and winter , and springtime and harvest ,
Sun , moon , and stars in their courses above ,
Join with all nature in manifold witness
To Thy great faithfulness , mercy , and love .
Near Eggleston , where my grandmother was born and raised , I pulled over , gathered my skirt up under my arm , and walked into a stranger ’ s field to pick an armful of the blooms . At the church I put a bundle of chicory on the piano next to my brother ’ s bouquet . Soon my cousin Keith arrived with a huge bouquet of freshly bloomed chicory from his farm in Bland County .
My brother played piano for the funeral , and as we began to sing “ Great is Thy Faithfulness ,” our unison singing was a welcomed shock to the air . It filled the little church . I could hear one of Mom ’ s church choir friends , Cheryl , sing from across the chapel . I was surprised by the rich tenor from my cousins singing behind me . I remembered doing school work while Mom practiced the organ on Wednesday nights . Even as I write this , I can hear her belting “ Great is Thy Faithfulness ” as she opened up the crescendo pedal on the last refrain until the sound vibrated through the pews . Going through the attic in Mom ’ s house , William and I found the keepsake book from Grandpa ’ s funeral at Edgewood United Methodist Church , long before we were born . We paged through the book and were shocked to see two hymns chosen for his service : “ Come Thou Fount ” and “ Great is Thy Faithfulness .” It confirms to me
Courtesy photo
All dressed for church , Mom gives her two children , my brother William and me , a hug .
that generations of ancestors and the things they found most meaningful are carried on inside us . We are instilled by accidental instruction to love roadside flowers and old-fashioned hymn-sings even if , like me , we are terrible gardeners and dislike organized religion .
Chicory stems have a row of flower clusters . Each bloom lasts only a day , but every day a new one opens on their stalks . I added my chicory bunches to Keith ’ s bouquet , brought them home , and every day for a week it was a bouquet renewed .
Bloom after bloom , we are all traces of the past waking into today . Aging makes us familiar strangers , vestiges renewed . At least three generations of women in my family have hiked up their skirts and picked flowers near Eggleston , and as my singing voice has settled into its 40th year , I hear an echo of my mom ’ s voice blossoming from my depths . �
SOUTH � SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER ’ 24 � 21