Dreaming of a Father's Love: A Tale From the Ohio Valley
By Sharon A. Lavy
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The Ohio Valley, May 29, 1973
Chapter One
She’d been called Birdie for so many years, that when the superintendent called on Roberta Mona Alexander to give the Valedictorian speech, she didn’t respond.
If a classmate hadn’t jabbed her and whispered, “That’s you,” Birdie might have missed the second call as well.
~~~
The following morning, as Birdie entered the conservatory that housed her father’s experimental plants, the rest of her life stretched before her. The lyrics of Helen Reddy’s song, I Am Woman, raced in her mind.
Elation surged through her body like a jolt of lightning. If she had her way, by the end of summer any one of these plants could win a blue ribbon.
During her high school years Birdie had taken special care in learning about each of the cultivars Alexander’s grew. Wanting to learn more about plant genetics, she’d checked out the horticulture classes at the local junior college.
She knew that some plants needed to dry out between watering while others preferred to be kept constantly moist. But no plant liked soggy soil. Birdie was determined to give each one the exact amount of water and fertilizer they required.
It was still dark outside. Birdie flipped on the lights and almost tripped over a two-foot roll of ½” tubing that wasn't in the room yesterday. She wondered how long it would be stored here. Could she find someone to scoot it out of the path?
Moments later, as she headed down the first row of herb-scented geraniums, a tickling sensation crossed her ankles. Birdie bent and scooped Miss Chloe into her arms.
The cat smelled of the foliage where she loved to play. “If you get much bigger, I won’t be able to lift you,” Birdie said as she straightened and draped her pet around her shoulders.
Last winter when she’d found the miniature cat shivering in the snow-covered display garden, the kitten was just a fluffy fur ball and fit into the palm of one hand. Now five months later, she weighed twenty-five pounds. Chances were she wasn't yet full grown.
Birdie hummed as she deadheaded the plants. The con-tented purr from Miss Chloe was like a massage on the back of her neck. The dried blooms crumbled between her fingers gave off a lemon-rose scent.
Before long, the tabby jumped down to pounce on the wilted flowers. Birdie laughed and threw a few more of the special geranium’s blooms toward her. Miss Chloe tried to catch them in her paws.
How had Birdie’s father known which genetics to track to get the various scents? Would he take her more seriously if she learned more about DNA? Would he take her more seriously if she used her formal name? Would he ever take her seriously?
A powerful thud startled Birdie from her thoughts. A head poked into the doorway’s opening, and Uncle Bryce filled the doorway.
“We’re short-handed today, Birdie. Can you help sort orders?” he asked.
“Just let me finish here.” Birdie grinned. As one of the taller girls in her peer group, she always felt petite working beside her uncle. “Where will I find you when I’m done?”
“We’re working outside in unit three,” Uncle Bryce said, then he swiveled and disappeared.
Birdie finished grooming the experimental plants and took one last glance around before she left the Victorian-style conservatory. She loved the arched windows and the curved glass roof. Grandfather Ora had built the glass room twenty years ago, in the days when supplies were less ex-pensive and labor was cheap.
She shut the door and headed toward the main block of newer greenhouses with Miss Chloe at her heels.
Once outside, Birdie glanced back at the building. The filigree trim at the very top of the antique hothouse blended with the gingerbread on the old brick building. It was off limits to the customers, because it housed their trial cultivars, but it still gave the place dignity.
With a grin, she continued on the path until she passed the first two greenhouse units and entered number three.
“We've sorted the purchase orders according to the time they came in,” Nathan said as he handed her a clipboard. “This is the next one in the queue.”
“Thanks, Nathan.” She took the large order and looked it over.
Birdie sorted out five sold tags and wrote Fran’s Fantasy Gardens on them with a Sharpie, then wired the tags to each of the trolleys she would use to assemble the inventory.
She knew where Alexander’s kept every cultivar, and rushed to the proper unit for each item on her list. She gathered six-packs of petunias and snapdragons in several colors, then marigolds, salvia, and alyssum. Before long, large plastic trays full of blooming annuals overflowed three of the trolleys.
Geraniums were next on the list, and she filled empty cardboard flats with six-inch pots. While these varieties are considered perennials in southern locations, they’re annuals in Ohio’s climate. Dad was experimenting with a hardier strain, but those plants weren't ready to sell yet.
The last line item called for twenty medium sized hostas. But Birdie could only find eighteen. She glanced at the order again, then checked and rechecked the other plants in the unit. The remaining sizes weren't close enough to substitute.
Her shoulders sagged. She’d learned life was a competition, and she’d have to hustle to keep up with men. And that included her Uncle Bryce and her brother, Nathan.
Wait. Birdie straightened. What about her plant clinic? She snapped her fingers and pushed a trolley to unit six to check her options.
She laughed aloud as she found two pots just the size she needed. Hosta plants are hardy, and these weren't overly damaged. She shaped them by cutting back a few riddled leaves.
Satisfied with Fran’s shipment, Birdie went to pick up another clipboard. “We’re out of medium size hostas,” she informed Uncle Bryce as she passed him.
“Were you able to fill everything else on your list?” His large, wide-spaced eyes gave him a soulful appearance, and she wondered why he’d never married.
“Yes. I was able to complete the order, but I had to use four different varieties to get enough hostas.”
Uncle Bryce nodded and pushed a lock of dark brown hair off his forehead. “Unless the other orders request larger or smaller pots, we’ll have to substitute a different size, or see if they want to cancel.”
As they continued throughout the afternoon, Birdie kept glancing at Nathan and her uncle. She made sure she worked faster. Faster and harder was her motto. It was the only way to get ahead in this male-dominated world called Alexander’s.
~~~
Before closing up that evening, Birdie stood deep in thought beside the open window that overlooked the display gardens. She was ready to get on with her life, and would be so excited if only...
The swift breeze carried a floral scent into the office and tickled her nose. Birdie sneezed, banging her hands on the windowsill. A flock of crows rose from some nearby shrubs and flew off with a grating caw … caw … caw.
“Bless you,” Sara Brubaker said. She sat at the desk across from the window where Birdie stood.
“Thanks, Sara.”
Although Alexander’s secretary lived in a plain, Anabaptist home, she obviously hadn't joined the group.
Many people confused the members of the Old German Baptist Brethren church with Mennonites or Amish. Often called Dunkards, the women of this conservative Brethren group wore cape dresses and white head coverings. At twenty-four years old, Birdie figured if Sara was going to become a member of the group, she’d have entered the fel-lowship long ago.
Sara kept her blonde hair short and had an appreciation for decorative timepieces. As she sorted paperwork, her right ear glittered, but her left earlobe was bare.
“Are you missing an earring?”
“Oops.” Sara reached up and touched her ear, then pat-ted her hand around the desk. “These are new. I wonder where I lost it.”
A sparkle on the floor caught Birdie’s eye, and she pointed. “Is that it?”
Sara rolled her chair to reach the missing ornament. “If I’d pierce my ears, they wouldn't come out so easily.” She snapped upright as if she’d said too much.
“So, why don’t you get them pierced?” Birdie asked.
Sara’s green eyes widened as she re-clipped the gem onto her ear. “My mother would die.”
“We do a lot to keep our parents happy,” Birdie agreed.
Ohio Valley Baptist, the church Birdie’s family attended, was a conservative denomination. But lately, even there pierced ears were becoming more acceptable—less scandalous.
A few months ago, some of the girls from Birdie’s congregation had gathered together with sterilized needles. They numbed their earlobes with ice. Irene West, one of the braver ones, demonstrated on her own ears. She made it look easy and relatively painless. Birdie rarely bothered with jewelry, but even she had joined the party that day.
“As long as I stick to the clip-on variety, Mom can feel it’s just a phase. But still, I don’t wear them around her much.”
“I don’t have too many disagreements with mine, but they act as if everyone should go to college. It wouldn't be so bad if…” Birdie let her words trail off. Complaining was a sin. Something she should not be doing.
“The Joint Vocational School helped me to land this job, and no one has ever asked me to take more classes,” Sara said as she sorted through a pile of paperwork, inserting first one and then another into file folders.
“Are these ready to file?” Birdie picked up a stack of folders Sara had placed at the edge of her desk.
Sara nodded. “Most German Baptists don’t go past high school, you know.”
“Not even the guys?” Birdie paused and when Sara shook her head, she headed for the file cabinet.
“Years ago, most of our people lived on farms. But lately, more of the brethren are taking up carpentry.” Sara shrugged. “They can still make a decent living in the building trade without a degree or investing in high priced land and large equipment.”
“Too bad the horticulture classes I took at JVS aren't enough for Dad.” Birdie clutched the folders to her chest. “He wants me to go away to some fancy place, and I see no reason for it.” Besides, there was a great opportunity for Birdie no more than ten miles away at the local college.
“But what would it hurt to go to a larger college … if that’s what he wants for you?”
The words surprised Birdie, coming from Sara. After all, her father didn’t want her wearing jewelry, and just look at her. “Leave home? And why on earth are you pushing me?”
“Sorry. Didn't know I was.”
“First my parents convinced Jason to attend Whitney State, and now they’re working on me.”
“And you don’t want to go,” Sara said.
“The ideal situation is to live at home and go to Packer,” Birdie said as she moved back from the file cabinet. “They have great horticulture classes. The college is close by. And another plus is that the Master Gardener Certification program would help with my work here.”
She’d honor her father by getting more training. That would help at Alexander’s, and she’d still be able to keep up with her chores in the greenhouses.
Sara fingered the daisies on her watchband. “I wouldn't mind enrolling in a night class.”
“What subject are you thinking about?” Birdie felt a lightening of her spirit. Maybe they could take a class together.
“They’re offering instruction in flower arranging,” Sara said with a cautious look in her eye. “Something that’s always useful, even after marriage ... when I won’t need to work.”
Birdie felt her jaw drop. She shut it, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts. “If you got married, you’d quit working?” She rubbed her hands over the familiar wood of her desk.
“I wouldn't want someone else raising my family.”
“But what if you couldn't have kids? There’s no guarantee, you know. Frankly, I wouldn't give up working—not for any man.” Birdie’s cheeks burned at the thought. “Nor marry a man who didn't respect my need to work in my family’s business. It would be like cutting off my leg or my arm. I've worked here since I was twelve. I’d want my kids to work here too.”
“If my dad didn't raise hogs, I might feel like you do. He has me help him move the pigs from the farrowing house to the barn when he weans. But that’s nothing to get excited about.”
Birdie studied her friend’s silky blouse and pencil-thin skirt. She grinned as she tried to imagine Sara running around in a pigpen. “You mean you’d feel the same if you were me? You’d want to stay nearby?”
“Did I say that? It’s Noelle’s family too, and I don’t see her hanging around.”
Birdie’s face felt stiff. Noelle. Her multi-talented sister. The cute one of the family.
When Noelle was a baby, people stopped Mom on the street to exclaim over the beautiful child. Then they’d cast their eyes at Birdie standing beside the baby carriage. “I’ll bet you are one smart little girl.”