Mary Henry
It was April 1956. I was 10 and my mother was about to celebrate her 35th birthday. I had a new bike and permission to ride into the business district of our small Ohio town. Dad had given me a whopping two dollars and I was headed down to Murphy’s Five and Dime to buy a present for Mom to give her at our little family birthday-do that evening.
I’d parked my bike and hadn’t even gotten to the front door of the store when the fragrance hit me. There were dozens of blooming hyacinths, in small clay pots, lined up on a table along the side walk. Shooting out of clusters of long, waxy, dark green leaves were tall spikes filled with tiny, flowers: rose, light pink, yellow, white, pale blue and dark blue. An assortment of colors, but only one intoxicating fragrance, twenty-nine cents a pot. I bought one in each color and had enough left over for a small bag of cinnamon balls and a gold fish. Choices made, deal done, I knew Mom would be thrilled.
With the hyacinths carefully placed in the basket of my bike, stabilized with wadded newspaper, I peddled home. The flowers remained hidden until the cake came out. The hyacinths were a big hit. Mom got teary, Dad patted me on the back and said, “Good job, Buster.” Aunt Ruthie said I had the soul of an artist. So, whether it was early imprinting via bike, independence, and positive feedback, or just the visual and olfactory splendor of the plants, I’ve been crazy about hyacinths ever since.
The potted birthday hyacinths sat next to the south facing window on our kitchen table until the bloom stalks withered and were, reluctantly, cut off. Then the pots were up-ended, given a sturdy slap and out came the rooted bulbs, potting soil intact. All went into the ground, spaced about five inches apart, on the south edge of the rock garden. The foliage browned and shriveled as spring progressed into summer and the bulbs went dormant. Nothing to be seen above ground. Filled with sedums and succulents, the rock garden had perfect drainage and got no irrigation, save what nature provided, during the summer. The area above the bulbs got a generous annual top dressing each November with the detritus (et cetera) from the floor of Uncle Virgil’s chicken coop. My mother was such a believer in Uncle Virgil’s chicken litter for all growing things, I’m surprised I never found it topping my Rice Krispies in the morning. Over the years, each hyacinth bulb turned into a clump which flourished and bloomed for years.
There is a point in my reporting of this sentimental story. Once properly planted, hyacinths, like adult children, are best left to thrive with judicious neglect. Don’t fuss over them and they’ll reward you effortlessly. It’s quite simple: full sun, rich, quick-draining soil, only natural irrigation, once you’ve watered them in at planting. Weed around the clumps to eliminate competition. And… perhaps… an annual late season feeding with chicken guano. Or, if you don’t have an uncle with a hen house, a light scattering of granular 12-12-12 in February or a top dressing of compost. Bait for slugs when leaves start to poke out of the ground.
Native to the Mediterranean, Asia Minor and Syria, potted, blooming hyacinths appear in nurseries and grocery store plant sections, mid-March stretching into April and May. They’re invariably a big hit for Easter and Mother’s Day. Enjoy them indoors in a bright window, their 8-inch pillars of waxy, richly colored blossoms will dazzle your eyes and enrapture your nose, perfuming the entire room. There are several species of hyacinth, but the ones you’ll see for sale, are the Dutch hybrids of Hyacinthus orientalist. Bare bulbs are abundant for planting in October. Dig a hole that is as deep as twice the width of the bulb. Purists drop a hefty spoonful of bone meal in the planting hole, before the bulb goes in. Plant in clusters for maximum impact. It’s a good idea to mark the area where you’ve planted the bulbs so you know where not to dig once foliage has died off and there is no sign of the hyacinth. Wooden chopsticks are ideal markers. Big enough to stop animal traffic, they’re visible, yet unobtrusive, weathering nicely in the garden.
Hyacinths are as easy as they are rewarding. All these many years later, I’ve lost my taste for cinnamon balls, and my interest in gold fish. But, as for hyacinths? I’m as infatuated as ever.