I never met my Mother's mother...she died when Mom was less than a year old. I know from family stories that she wrote poetry and that she was born the same day as my Mom's Dad and joked with him about being an hour older and so, therefore, the 'boss'. Mom has always had a big stand of these iris and has moved them with her whenever she moved. She said that she'd started them from a clump that she took from her mother's grave. Her Dad had planted them the year that he burried his wife.
She gave me some of the iris roots and they have grown beautifully in my raised box. I gave roots to my three daughters so now they are growing in two other Michigan communities and in Bellevue, Washington. We all call them Grandma's Irises and we all remember an ancestor whom we never had the opportunity to know. I like that idea, somehow...
