George
When I was in the 8 th grade, our family moved to a larger apartment in a suburb of Toronto. On the window ledge was a pathetic, mostly dead grape ivy, left behind by a former tenant. My mother nursed it back to health and eventually re=potted him and hung him in a macramé hanger in the corner of the dining room. The ivy flourished and for some unknown reason, she named him George. Several years later, my sister married and a piece of George was tucked into her bouquet. This was done as a loose interpretation of the sprig a myrtle, originating from Queen Victoria that is incorporated into every British royal bride’s bouquet. That sprig of George traveled to California where he outgrew the original. A piece of George came overnight to me in Minnesota for my wedding bouquet. My George rooted quickly and made its home in my front window, hanging in a macramé hanger I bought off eBay. Whenever friends and coworkers got married, I told them the story of ...