by Harriet Squier

Created on: February 25, 2008

Vermont is a hilly state where summers are short and winters long. My 98 year old father insists on growing dahlias there. His house looks out on West Mountain and the Otter Creek Valley south of Rutland, Vermont. Half of his deep front lawn is plowed into 70 foot long rows. Each spring my brother erects scaffolding, a wooden support structure for the 300 dahlias that he and I will plant. The place looks odd in the spring when the plants are small and the supports obvious and ugly. But by September the supports are hidden by foliage and flowers.

My father creaks around the house behind his walker, bent over, hard of hearing, and faint of sight. But he knows flowers, lives for his dahlias, and persists through yet another winter dreaming of his tubers chilling in the basement. He knows the names of all his varieties; knows which bloom reliably and which are so late they're lucky to bloom by October. This latter group must be started in pots under grow lights to have any chance to flower.

His favorite dahlia is called Kelvin Floodlight, a dinnerplate yellow that begins blooming in August and continues through frost. Every year he tries as many other dinnerplate varieties as he can, and is disappointed by their late (or no) blooms. He has 20 or 30 Kelvin Floodlight in the first row as if to beckon all passersby.

He is proud, also, of varieties that are tall and prolific. He has a picture of himself climbing a stepladder to reach a dozen pale yellow Dambuster blossoms that must have been 8 or 9 feet off the ground. He says he's not sure which was the greater miracle, the height of the plant or his attempt to climb that step ladder. The back row, nearest the house, is planted with the tallest varieties, pinks and yellows that soar to the eaves. From his living room window, my father struggles to see the rest of the garden through these giants.

Each year my father enters his dahlias in the Vermont State Fair. In late August, he eyes the buds, measures blooms, and plans his strategy. Will he have the largest bloom of the show? Enough blossoms over 8 inches across to make an arrangement? To win best of show? I help him with arranging the flowers. I have my concerns, too. Will there be enough colors to make interesting arrangements? Will enough flowers be in bloom to enter every category?

In years past, we would watch the thermometer during Fair time with trepidation. A frost in early September was not unlikely, and would ruin every bloom. More recently, though, the weather is warmer in September. Even after bringing home his usual haul of ribbons, my father has had a month or more to enjoy his dahlias. Vermont's short growing season is becoming more forgiving.

When the frost finally does hit, my father's yard looks grim, indeed. The black skeletons of dahlias slump against the wooden supports. Digging them is a blessing. The tubers lift firm and plump. My brother labels them and carries them to the basement. They hold the promise of another summer. The are the stuff of my father's dreams.

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