Honeysuckle: A Childhood Memory

Honeysuckle by Theophilos

 Summer evenings fragrant with the perfume of honeysuckle remind me of my Grandma Flasher. The climbing vines, with their pretty yellow and white bell-shaped blooms, covered my Grandma’s front porch railings and posts. The twining tendrils formed a flowery, aromatic curtain that provided much-appreciated shade.

My dad visited his mom, dad, and brother, Allen nearly every day. Often one or two of us kids would go along. After supper we usually would find Grandma, still wearing her apron over her housedress, sitting out on the front porch, enjoying the early evening. We would plop down beside her on the old wooden swing. A well-worn blanket thrown over it kept our bare legs from sticking to the high-gloss paint in the heat.

Time seemed to stand still during those moments on Grandma Flasher’s porch. I never remember getting bored or antsy, which, when I think about it, is a bit of a miracle. We just pumped our legs back and forth in rhythm with the swing and listened to the adults chatting about seemingly nothing in particular, but connecting in a way that spoke volumes.

Eventually the honeysuckle lured us over for a taste of its ambrosia.  I’m not sure who taught us how to pull the stamen slowly out of the flower to suck the droplet of delicate nectar on it, but the plant’s name, honey plus suckle, soon made perfect sense to me. It's a flavor and fragrance that will always be reminiscent of Grandma Flasher.

I would love to hear your childhood memory. Won't you share it?

©2012 Pamela D. Williams