Mare Dianora

There are so many plants in this yard that have special meaning - the bulbs
that Grandpa rescued from the ‘39 World’s Fair in Queens or the roses that
were originally planted by my great-great grandmother at her house on Zarega
Avenue in the Bronx. But the plant that stands out the most in my memory as
a child is the hydrangea bush. There are conflicting stories of where this
came from. Some say it was already here when Grandpa bought the house,
someone else told me that he rescued it from the trash when he was a
sanitation worker in the city and someone else told me it was given as a
gift from another relative. Regardless of its origin it is one of the main
characteristics of the yard at the house here in Sag Harbor. It sits all
alone on the top of the hill next to the house, but curiously all alone. To
me it represents what has always been here. It is one of the things that we
have in common with those who were here before us. My mom tells me stories
of when she and her cousins next door had play weddings in front of that
very hydrangea. Whoever was the bride would get to hold one of the large
bulbs of flowers. I have memories from my own childhood - my sister and I
getting our photograph taken each summer in front of that bush. Each year we
get a little taller and soon tower over it. But still the bush remains there
and blooms every August. I rake it out each spring and wait for the leaves
to flourish.