The Story: Lucy
“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” — Dr. Seuss
When Lucille was alive, she kept plants everywhere: windowsills, tabletops, the edges of her porch. She rarely bought them. Most were cuttings from neighbors or friends, small gifts of green that she would coax into new life. To her, propagation wasn’t just a hobby; it was a way of living shaped by the times she came from.
Lucille was born in the shadow of the Great Depression, in an era when thrift was a language of love. People saved what could be saved, grew what they could not buy, and built lives around the simple act of making do. The war years deepened those habits: Victory Gardens, rationing, the shared wisdom of women trading recipes and garden tips over fences. Resourcefulness wasn’t optional, it was noble. And so, she learned that taking a clipping from one plant to grow another wasn’t just economic, it was hope.
When she died, my mother gave me her largest aloe. I was in my thirties then, raising a young family and rushing through my own days. I didn’t understand that what I’d been given wasn’t just a plant, but a piece of her: her patience, her love, her rootedness. I put it in the garage, and when the first freeze came, it died. It took years before I could name the regret.
If I could, I’d tell her I’m sorry. And Lucille, “Lucy,” would grin and wave her hand. “It’s ok, Sister,” she’d say. “It’s only a plant.” Then she’d wrap me in her blue jacket, the one too big for my little-girl body, and we’d go dig for worms in the garden. We’d put them in a tin can for fishing later, forget about them, and then dig again the next day. She’d make me a glass of Nesquik, deal out a game of War on a quilt, roll me up in it like a burrito, and unroll me quick, flinging across the floor while I laughed hysterically. And just like that, the world would be whole again.
This repurposed container says “Calm” on the outside. I keep it close, a reminder of the quiet I still search for, the kind my grandmother carried naturally. She passed on her green thumb, her stubbornness, and maybe a little of her worry too. This vessel and its flower are more than decoration; they are a piece of my childhood, a piece of her.
What about you? What memory surfaces when you think of your grandmother? Was it gentle? Familiar? I wish I had called mine more often. I wish I had gone to see her. They are the people who love us the most in this life, outside our parents, if we’re lucky. And by the time we understand that, they’re gone.
Care Guide
Light: Bright, indirect light or soft morning sun.
Water: This container has no drainage holes. Water lightly—only when the top inch of soil is dry to the touch. A few tablespoons is enough.
Environment: Keep in a temperate room away from drafts or direct heat.
Top Dressing: Spanish moss help retain moisture and complement the vessel’s calm tone.
Encouragement: If the soil feels dry, breathe, water slowly, and remember that everything living needs time to recover.
Reminder
The word on this vessel is a small prayer and a legacy. Calm is what Lucille gave to her plants, to her home, and to me. It’s what I’m still learning to grow. I prayed for you as I held this vessel, that God would bless you and your family, to know what you have before it’s too late.
“Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near.” — Philippians 4:5
With you in the soil and the story,
Ellie
A Living Story Disclaimer
Each Restoried Garden begins its journey in my hands but continues its story with you. Every vessel has been cleaned, prepared, and planted with care; however, once it leaves my garden, its life depends on your unique environment and tending. Please note that weather, watering, and placement all influence longevity, and I cannot be responsible for plant performance or wear over time. These pieces are meant to live, grow, and change, a reflection that no story truly ends; it simply takes root somewhere new.
