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My grandmother had a rock, about the size of a giant hibiscus flower and the color of drying sedum, right at the entrance to her garden. It was engraved with words that pretty much summed up her approach to gardening: "Grow, Dammit!"

I could never tell if the words on that rock were meant as command or plea-I suppose it depended on the day. I do know, however, that my grandmother's garden was less about harmony of composition, perfection of bloom, balance of color, or architectural sophistication (although she did pay attention to such things in other people's gardens),and more about expressing what she considered as essential attributes of her personality. Thus the stuffed animal in a bird cage hanging from the old maple was equally a part of her garden as were the brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows of the Rieger Begonias she loved to start from tubers. The dwarf fir, silver tipped and wholly out of place in the middle of her yard, was a balanced element in her overall scheme, setting off the metal tones of the house jack she bought at a garage sale and placed in the middle of the begonias, a variegated potato vine draping off the top.

My grandmother loved color, or rather she loved certain colors-brilliant reds, the glowing salmon of a sunset in early autumn, canary yellow, purples of all sorts. Other colors she didn't care for, the pale blues of some annual lobelias, the washed clay red of a yarrow I once bought her, and the timid blush of a bloom that cannot decide if it wants to be white or pink. Pinks in general annoyed her, actually. She wanted her plants, like the people she cared about, to be bold, unafraid to make a statement. Shrinking violets in her garden and in her family were equally unwelcome. Know what you stand for, she would tell us. "Grow, Dammit!"

My grandmother died a few years ago, and two months after the funeral my uncle and I stopped by her house to dig up and divide her peonies. They were huge, the thin soil at the side of the house somehow nourishing spectacular blooms for nearly as long as she had lived in the house. We cut up the roots, some for him, some for me, and some for my mother, placing chunks with four or five eyes each into large green trash bags. That afternoon of fading sun and quiet digging turned out to be our final hours in my grandmother's garden. The house sold not long after.

Those peonies continue to grow, however. I opened a bed alongside my driveway and planted my inheritance. The following spring my yard was graced with vibrant, crimson blooms, just a few to each plant but holding rich promise. Each year my grandmother's spirit bloomed forth stronger and more plentifully, the peonies as powerful a presence in my neighborhood as my grandmother's personality was in hers. When I moved last spring, I dug up the peonies from the still frozen soil and brought them with me to a new home, where they again started the cycle of regeneration.

My grandmother was not attached to things-you can't take it with you, she was fond of reminding us. But I have been able to take a part of her with me, part of the spirit she expressed in her garden. And on days when I never know if plea or command will shape the garden to my hopeful imaginings, I take comfort in knowing that whatever mistakes I might make in plant selection, composition, or harmonious architectural balance, a garden is a space in which to express who I am, a space in which to grow unafraid.

Learn more about this author, Nathaniel Paradise.
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