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Wisteria
| Article
# : |
17566 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
7 / 1990 |
1,831 Words |
| Author
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David H. Ehrlich
David H. Ehrlich, an avid theatergoer, is an independent
writer based in Washington, D.C. He has previously written
numerous essays for The World & I. |
Wisteria - that wonderful long, flowing vine with the perfumed purple flowers that wilt almost as soon as they're picked - has been a part of my family culture far longer than I can remember. And so it was with great respect for family tradition, as well as a desire for privacy and beauty that wouldn't take forever to grow, that I decided to buy the house I bought five years ago. My reason was to plant and enjoy my own wisteria.
Great clusters of pale purple wisteria framed the doorway of my grandparents' house in Boston. They were my first introduction to this prodigious vine. And my parents' house, into which we moved when I was two, soon boasted a breathtaking cascade of leaves and flowers going up to and around the front balcony.
A family story has it that my father invited a lady he thought he was going to marry to come up from New York to spend the weekend (carefully chaperoned, of course) with his parents. Bursting with love and the pride of his handiwork, he rose early in the morning to cut a few wisteria blossoms for his inamorata's breakfast tray. The lady, unfortunately for her, hadn't been clued in. "What's this stuff?" she complained. "I'm used to roses with my breakfast." Needless to say, she didn't pass the test and was packed off whence she had come.
My own first house was, unluckily, in the middle of Vermont, and I tried hard to maintain the tradition there. But the winters were just too cold, and two years' worth of trying produced only a few measly tendrils that refused to climb, much less flower.
So, as I told my
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