George

When I was in the 8th 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 George and would offer them a piece.  Most accepted, excited by the idea of having a growing piece of their wedding bouquet in their homes. I have heard stories of these brides passing on sprigs to their friends and family.

One coworker had moved to Phoenix and shortly after became engaged.  My husband and I were invited to the wedding and we traveled to Laughlin NV for the wedding with a piece of George.  After the ceremony, George was carefully removed from the bride's bouquet, wrapped gently in a damp paper towel and put in a plastic bag.  The bride gave the bag to her mother with instructions to take George back to Phoenix and start rooting him. The mother seemed perplexed and the bride and I explained the story of George and the sharing of cuttings.  The mom looked at the bride with a smile and said: “I knew your grandfather would somehow make it to your wedding.” Her grandfather had passed the year before. His name was George.