I’ve reached the age of 65. I had initially planned to visit Kings Canyon National Park in the Sierras and sit on the rock where the iconic photo of John Muir was taken and where the Sierra Club was established. However, an unexpected turn of events, COVID-19, led me to stay home instead.
Instead, I celebrated by baking a chocolate cake reminiscent of the ones my mother often made for birthdays. She frequently prepared the chocolate cake using the recipe from the back of the Hershey’s cocoa can, topped with chocolate buttercream frosting, for my birthday and many others.
The recipe is still the same, but the ‘can’ is no longer metal and is now plastic. However, another birthday cake from almost 50 also comes to mind that also had a big impact on me.
During my high school years in Houston, I frequently walked to and from school to steer clear of the ‘cowboy’ bullies on the bus. Along my route, I would pass a house with a remarkable garden that distinguished itself from others in the area. I recall a dense pine tree on the front lawn, surrounded by beautiful flowers. In spring, the pansies were especially stunning. Although I never saw anyone at home, I likely would have been too shy to speak to them if I had.
In February of my sophomore year, I stayed out past midnight at my friend Steve Millard’s house. I rode my bicycle home, put it in the garage, and managed to sneak in through the backdoor without waking my parents. As I was preparing for bed, I heard sounds like fireworks from the front, followed by glass breaking and people shouting to get out. By the time I reached a front window, there was a bright glow down the street, and I saw a house I had just passed was on fire. I woke my parents, startling my dad so much that he thought our house was on fire due to the brightness of the glow. He wanted to climb out the bedroom window. Fortunately, we lived in a one-story house. By the time we got outside, the fire department had arrived, along with many people who had seen the glow and gathered to watch the spectacle as the shingle roof burned intensely, lifted by the heat of the fire.
The next morning was a Saturday, and many of us from the neighborhood came to help with the cleanup and salvage any personal items that could be saved. It was there that I met the neighbors next to the burned house, Johnnie Pruitt and her husband. The beautiful garden I had admired many times belonged to them. Later, they invited me to see their backyard. I was amazed by the wide raised beds of flowers and plants, all new to me. Over the following months, I visited them whenever I could and even tried to care for their garden when they were away. They taught me about candling pines to make them grow denser and how to trim plants naturally. Gradually, they started giving me plants for our house. They gave me geraniums (which I learned years later were actually pelargoniums), and I overwatered them, thinking they needed a lot of water. They also gave me rudbeckias, which were planted under the pink crepe myrtles on either side of the front walk. Additionally, they gave me a strange-looking fern leaf clump with an herbal smell. Johnnie said to divide it and it would grow into more clumps, so I did. Not knowing its name, I called it Mrs. Pruitt fern. I was surprised when the following spring it produced stiff sprays of white flowerheads. Today, I know it was common yarrow, Achillea millefolium. It is native to much of the U.S., Europe, and Asia. I often see it when hiking in San Diego and many other places and gardens around the world. There are numerous colored flower garden selections of this plant.
A few years back, I purchased a large quantity of mixed Southern California wildflower seeds, which included yarrow. Now, it thrives in various native spots on our hillside. I’m reminded why I haven’t cultivated it much over the past 50 years. When it receives regular water, it rapidly spreads, outcompeting other plants. The yarrow in the photos was recently picked from the garden. It has become somewhat unruly and will be trimmed and separated from more desirable plants once it finishes blooming.
In addition to learning about gardening from the Pruitts, I also learned an important lesson. In the early 70s, several military officers faced court-martial for the Vietnam My Lai Massacre. A petition circulated in the neighborhood, urging for the charges to be dropped. Somehow, I knew Johnnie and her husband hadn’t signed it. When I asked them why, they explained simply and clearly that innocent children and women might have been killed and their village burned, and if true, it would be wrong not to allow justice to proceed. As a young teenager, my understanding of the war or the massacre was limited, beyond the nightly news and the fear of being drafted to Vietnam. However, this conversation made me reflect on justice, the dangers of jumping to conclusions, and how group pressure can lead to unthinking actions. It also heightened my awareness of the broader world and our potential place in history. Their words have stayed with me all these years and seem more relevant now than ever.
Returning to the topic of cake, shortly after, Johnnie’s sister, who was battling cancer, moved in with the Pruitts. I discovered it was Johnnie’s birthday, and my mom suggested I bake her a cake. Since I was quite skilled at baking cookies and cakes, it wasn’t a big deal. I was eager to surprise Johnnie with a cake, hoping it would make her happy. Her sister helped with the surprise and expressed her gratitude, saying she wished she could do something but lacked the energy. When Johnnie saw the cake, she began to cry. This unexpected reaction made me worry I had done something wrong, but I soon realized those were tears of joy. So, 49 years later, here’s to Mom’s chocolate cake, the Mrs. Pruitt fern, and the lessons learned long ago.
