“Stand
up straight, Rose,” her mother said while she wrapped chiffon around her, estimating the amount
needed.
“Do you
like it, Rose?” She was designing her prom dress. It was only pinned
together.
She
thought about the way Echinacea had decorated her rooms. Decorated was not the
correct word. Echinacea didn’t decorate. She made art, finding places to hang
shawls and skirts. Learning from Echinacea, Rose decided, had been as exciting
as any art class she ever took.
excerpt from my memoir, The Garden Girls Letters and Journal
