Katie Vaz - My Life in Plants

Also by Katie Vaz

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Make Yourself Cozy

Dont Worry, Eat Cake

Wildflowers

B efore leaving to go to the Little Miss Candor pageant at our local American Legion, my dad picked wildflowers from the patches of tall grass and weeds along our driveway. Then he bound the stems together with duct tape to make a bouquet for me. I wore a heart-patterned white and red dress that my mom had made, and I had a bright turquoise Little Mermaid bandage on my shin. I told the audience that my favorite activity was swimming in my Aunt Barbaras pool and that the bandage was for a boo-boo I got while playing outside. I won and got to be in two parades a few days later, wearing a tiara and a sash, carrying a sequined wand, and feeling like a princess. In one parade, my mom and I rode in a red Corvette convertible, me propped up on the back seat and waving shyly to parade watchers. In the other, I rode in the back of a pickup truck with some of the other kids from the pageant, including Little Mr. Candor. They wore clothes that were much fancier, bought from a department store. That was the first time I noticed such a thing.

Cattails

I grew up with my parents and sister in a small yellow double-wide on a hill, surrounded mostly by woods. I never liked the dark, and I was always afraid of the woods at nighttime.

We lived on a dirt road bordered by drainage ditches filled with cattails and tall grass in the summertime. The cattails captivated me, appearing brown and wobbly like cartoonish hot dogs on their long, grassy stalks. Behind our house was a pond surrounded by more cattails and tall grass. It felt wild and uninhabited. You couldnt see the horizon because there were more fields and hills and tall grass. It seemed to go on forever like that. I always had the feeling that we were on the edge of the world there, like nothing existed beyond the border of our property. Walking to the edges felt lonely and eerie, almost like intruding on a world that didnt need us. My dad told me that when I was older, I would appreciate it more and see the house as a retreat from the world, a sanctuary in nature. But I never grew to like it. I do not like the feeling of being the only human around.

Aloe Vera

T here was a fireplace at our house, and my dad loved having fires going. One night, while my mom was adding wood and newspaper to the fire, I wanted to help. My mom added a piece of crumpled-up newspaper to the fire, but it was a piece that I wanted to throw in. So I reached into the fire to grab for it... and burned my finger.

My mom had an aloe vera plant that sat on the kitchen windowsill over the sink. It was a stubby little plant with its plump, speckled green leaves shooting out of the tiny pot. She broke off a leaf and squeezed the cool aloe vera gel onto my small burn. She told me she was sure I would never try touching fire again, and she was correct.

Green Onions

W e visited my grandpa often. He smelled like Brylcreem and Old Spice, and his cheeks always felt fuzzy with whiskers when he hugged us. Sometimes, when we visited on weekends, we stayed late to watch SNICK on Nickelodeon. Cable television was such a treat. At our house, we only got a handful of basic channels, so my sister and I mostly watched Disney movies and PBS shows.

My grandpa grew green onions in the summertime. One time I was helping him pick them out of the ground, and then he and I took bites out of the green parts. I didnt know they could be eaten like that, but I copied what he was doing. They tasted pungent and a little spicy, but fresh and good. He could grow everything, it seemed. My mom told me about how when they were younger, the food from the garden was essential to the familys food supply throughout the year. My grandma preserved a lot of the fruits and vegetables that would be eaten throughout the winter. When my grandma was gone and my grandpa was retired, he gardened for fun and to keep himself busy.

Rhubarb

E very Sunday, my immediate and extended family gathered for dinner at my grandpas house. Everyone congregated in the kitchen and there was always a television on in the corner. There was a smiling pink plastic pig from RadioShack that sat in the refrigerator and oinked at you when you opened the door. We giggled in front of the antique glass cabinet, peeking in at the vintage salt and pepper shakers shaped like boobs that were supposed to be hidden. It felt like an adventure to explore the house and play with old decorations and trinkets.

When it was summertime, we gathered on the back porch, where there were mismatched chairs and benches and another television in the corner. A baseball game was always on, and you could hear the hum and buzz of a bug zapper in the background. Rhubarb grew on a small knoll near the house. My cousin, sister, and I were told not to eat the big, broad green leaves, but we did pick and snack on the ruby-pink stalks straight from the ground, our mouths puckering from the intense sourness.