After other flowers fade, marigolds seen in a new light

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

They're intrepid little flowers, dancing in the snow, lovely things - these orange and yellow marigolds that I have disparaged my whole life. They are the last to leave the party, a sudden standout because they stand alone.

The violet charm clematis that grew tall and leggy behind them; the blood red dahlias that dazzled beside them; the pinks and the plums and the purples that swayed and sashayed their way through June, July, and August, outshining them every day - did not outlast them. They have all vanished now like Cinderella's coach and gown. The clock struck, and they withered.

With no competition, the marigolds amaze.

The morning after last week's snowfall, I was at my neighbor Katherine's back door and glanced at her garden, and there they were, bright and perky and shimmering, shrugging off the snow and stretching toward the sun with no signs of stopping. I never liked marigolds. I never planted them. I never saw their beauty. Everywhere you look these days there are beautiful things to see: asters and mums, great yellow and purple and cinnamon clusters, flourishing in pots and in perfectly mulched flower beds, so bold and striking. All the trees, rouged for fall and backlit by a blue autumn sky. They catch the eye. They tug at the heart. Every pumpkin, little or big, makes you smile.

The marigold has stiff competition.

Katherine grew hers from seed indoors last March while the ground was still frozen. These humble flowers have been through planting and replanting and spring and summer and fall and soaking rains and days of drought and finally, last week, snow. And the snow suddenly framed them. And the sun shone its light on them. And in the light and in that moment, they were beautiful things, too.

Morning glories lose their glory. I nurture them anyway. Impatiens shrivel in the heat, get leggy in the rain, slump in the middle of the day, like sun but not too much, demand gentle watering and are as mercurial as a 13-year-old. I buy them by the flat every spring nevertheless. Dahlias have to be dug up in the fall and dried off and stored in paper bags in the cellar all winter. Then weaned back into the light in May and put back into the ground, but only after there is no chance of frost. Every year. Year after year. Some rot anyway. And some get devoured by the family of groundhogs that live under my shed and won't go away. And some don't bloom. And some that do bloom slouch under their own weight. I grow them and feed them and stake them despite all these things.

So why have I given such short shrift to marigolds? They're easy to grow. They come in all colors. There are tall ones and short ones and even in between ones. They're hardy, they're long lasting, and kids love them. And having seen them in the snow, I think I could grow to love them, too.

The snow is gone now, the marigolds a flash of orange under a pile of leaves, a hint of yellow near Katherine's back door. Nothing that would take your breath away. Nothing like the giant maple tree up the street. But they did take my breath away for a minute just a week ago.

``One of life's most fulfilling moments,'' the futurist Edward Lindaman wrote, ``occurs in that split-second when the familiar is suddenly transformed into the dazzling aura of the profoundly new.''

A small flower stretches toward the light and sheds some light. I will plant marigolds next year.