The Bush Man...

 When I was growing up in the then-wee town of Boxford in Massachusetts, we had frequent delivery visits. One of my earliest memories was of the man who collected dirty diapers (mine!) and dropped off snowy piles of clean ones. I'd hide behind my mother's woolen skirt as they made the exchange. 

Mr. Kelloway delivered milk and eggs from his van. He wore blue and white pinstriped overalls and a train conductor-style cap. He strode on long legs from his van to our front porch, where he would tuck glass bottles of milk and a dozen or two fresh eggs in the cool box left there for him. He always had a smile and some kind words and was a welcome sight. 

The most exciting delivery man to me was one my parents called The Bush Man. He came in the spring and would open the trunk of his big sedan and lift out a variety of ornamental bushes. Bridal Wreath (Spirea), Azaleas, Mountain Laurel, Rhododendron and more. He would wax poetic, telling my mother about the colors of blossoms each shrub would boast once they were established, and she would get a dreamy look in her eye, imagining their glory. 

Every year, she'd buy a few plants, taking the money for them out of her leather wallet and carrying the burlap-wrapped things to a shady spot until my father would have time to plant them. It was my job to give each one a cool drink, and I still remember the spicy smell of the foliage and the warm, familiar smell of dirt. 

Our lot was wooded and shady. My parents would walk around in the evening, choosing where each plant would be placed to its best advantage. By the time I left home to find a spot to spread my own roots, those once-small shrubs were well-grown. In the spring, they put forth a rainbow hue of blossoms, the glowing white of the Spirea, the shades of pink from palest blush to deep, almost-red of the Azaleas and "Rhoadies," (as my parents dubbed them) made many a rainbow bouquet to be carried in and placed proudly in a vintage vase. Each year, more bushes were tucked here and there, on either side of the driveway, in beds in front of the house, and deep in the woods to be discovered on a walk; they flourished. 

I never knew The Bush Man's name; he must be long gone now. My parents, too, of course. My sister and her husband live in the house we grew up in, surrounded in spring by the flowers planted long ago, the woods dappled in splashes of color once described by a man with dirt under his nails to a pretty woman surrounded by kids and trees, envisioning the future. 

(Thanks to Shara Salmon for the lovely photo!)