My grandmother was a teller of tall tales and an inventor of facts. She only needed to hear the structural elements of a story to create color, context and a backstory before she repeated to someone else, in more detail, what you had told her offhandedly. She was also a very successful gardener who never bought a plant if she didn’t have to.
My grandmother built her yard from plants that she had gotten from someone else — most of the time with their permission. When my mother married into her family, she already had a love of gardening from her own mother, so my mother and my grandmother were often partners in crime, digging up flowers off the side of some backcountry road where property rights don’t really matter so much. The official Southern term for plants that someone gives you from her yard is “passalong” plants. These plants are given in a spirit of hospitality and kinship with fellow gardeners, and they strengthen the bonds of friendship between them for years to come. I don’t know the official term for snatching plants on someone else’s back 40 without their knowledge. Stolen? Pilfered? Felony on public lands? The statute of limitations has run out on their crimes, so I can share these things with you.
When I was growing up, I thought everybody kept a shovel and plastic pots in the trunk. I don’t know how many hours I have spent sitting in a car waiting for my mother to dig up a plant to carry home. The worst was when she actually knew the plant owners and she talked to them for what seemed like hours. Old, old ladies with names like Edna and Mabel and Inez who had yards teeming with irises and jonquils. They were just overjoyed to share their wealth of bulbs and rhizomes and even a few cuttings from their gardenias and hydrangeas stuck in a Mason jar so they would last until we got home. As I got older, I discovered these old ladies were just fascinating to talk to, but when you are 10 years old and sitting in a car under the hot Georgia sun with nothing more than a book you’ve already read twice for entertainment, these visits were interminable.
The worst of the worst was when my mother, grandmother and one of my aunts were traveling together. I melted into the hot and sticky vinyl seats of our Ford station wagon countless times, sitting and waiting in a little caravan of cars parked halfway into the ditch of some red-dirt road while they looked for plants to appropriate. These women garnered strength from their numbers. Bolstered by the fact that there was more than one adult present, they became courageous enough to venture deeper into the snake- and tick-infested woods to look behind masses of scuppernong vines for even more plants to take home. My grandmother would stand on the side of the ditch smoking a cigarette, waving her arm expansively toward the tree line while she explained how it was perfectly fine for us to be here doing this because this was Elrod McSomething-or-other’s property, and our families had known each other for generations.
It was so hot and so quiet out there. When my aunt wasn’t rooting my mother on to venture deeper into the woods — or my grandmother wasn’t explaining how Mr. Elrod’s great-grandfather was double first cousins with her third cousin’s great-grandmother — the deep and humid silence was broken only by the regular coos of a mourning dove or the faint whirr of a car passing on the paved road. These impromptu forest-filching adventures inevitably occurred en route to the yard of somebody named Miss Hilda who lived in the middle of nowhere and shared a common 19th-century ancestor with my grandmother. Needless to say, these visits took a while.
As I got older and discovered my own love of gardening, I came to appreciate the value of passalong plants and the occasional roadside pilfering. When I look at these plants in my own yard, I remember friendships and adventures. I think on fond memories and remind myself to put a trowel and some black pots in my own car for future plant emergencies.
My grandmother always had a saying that you should never thank a person who gave you plants from her yard or the plants would wither and die. You should just promise to take good care of the plants given to you. Given my grandmother’s fractious relationship with facts, I always thought this was something she invented in her fervid imagination to increase the drama of the conversation. It turns out that was actually a real thing that people used to say.
My grandmother passed away 15 years ago, but she can come alive for me in the blink of an eye or the turn of a spade. I’d give anything to be out on a dirt road with her again, smelling the mineral hardness of wet red clay and her menthol cigarettes, while she stood by the ditch and told me her tall tales and which plants to dig up and put in her trunk.
What is your favorite passalong plant? Did you have to sit in the car and wait for your mother to dig up plants? Share your favorite memories in the comments below!
Our story was reprinted on Southern Living's Grumpy Gardner's blog! We were just delighted! https://www.southernliving.com/garden/grumpy-gardener/passalong-plants-memories
The Enduring Allure of Passalong Plants: A Commentary on Stacy Reece’s Story
Stacy Reece’s heartwarming piece, “Never Say Thank You for Passalong Plants,” beautifully captures the essence of a cherished Southern tradition. It’s a story brimming with humor, nostalgia, and a deep appreciation for the connections fostered by gardening.
Beyond Plants: A Legacy of Kinship
The narrative transcends the act of acquiring plants. It delves into the camaraderie and shared passion that bind gardening enthusiasts. We see this in the “partners in crime” dynamic between Reece’s mother and grandmother, venturing off on plant-hunting expeditions together. Their adventures, often bordering on the mischievous with their “backcountry road” acquisitions, highlight the joy of discovery and the thrill of unearthing hidden horticultural treasures.
The Power of Storytelling and Shared History
The tale also emphasizes the power of storytelling. Reece’s grandmother, the “teller of tall tales,” weaves narratives around the plants, imbuing them with a deeper significance. These stories become living testaments to family history, connecting the present to the past through shared ancestors and cherished memories.
The Unspoken Language of Plants
The act of receiving “passalong” plants isn’t a mere transaction. It’s a gesture of generosity and a silent pact to nurture the plant, carrying on a lineage of care. The author’s grandmother’s belief that thanking the giver could lead to the plant’s demise, though perhaps whimsical, underscores the sacredness of this tradition. It’s about respecting the legacy of the plant and ensuring its continued survival.
Memories Etched in Green
Perhaps the most poignant aspect of the story lies in how plants become living memorials. Reece reflects on how the passalong plants in her garden evoke cherished memories of her grandmother – the stifling car rides, the conversations with the “old, old ladies,” and the adventures on dusty red-dirt roads. These plants are more than flora; they’re tangible reminders of a bygone era and the enduring love for gardening passed down through generations.
A Call to Tradition
Reece’s story serves as a gentle nudge to continue this delightful tradition. It encourages us to share the joy of gardening by gifting “passalong” plants, forging new connections and creating memories that will bloom alongside the flora we nurture.
The Discussion Continues
As Reece invites readers to share their own “passalong” plant stories, the piece becomes a tapestry woven from collective experiences. It reminds us that gardening is not a solitary pursuit but a shared passion that thrives on community and the exchange of stories, plants, and the love for the natural world.
متجر مشتلي
The Enduring Legacy of Passalong Plants: A Review of Stacy Reece’s Heartwarming Story
Stacy Reece’s essay, “Never Say Thank You for Passalong Plants,” is a delightful read that captures the essence of Southern gardening culture. It’s a nostalgic journey through childhood memories, intertwined with the unique tradition of “passalong” plants – where generosity and love for flora blossom together.
Grandmother’s Green Thumb and Borrowed Beauties:
The author paints a vivid picture of her grandmother, a master gardener who built her haven with “borrowed” (or shall we say, creatively acquired) plants. This practice, imbued with a spirit of community and shared passion, strengthens the bonds between gardening enthusiasts. The narrative takes a humorous turn when we learn about the “official Southern term” for these plants versus the not-so-official methods employed by the author’s family – a lighthearted peek into the playful side of this tradition.
More Than Just Plants: Memories Take Root
The charm of the story lies in its ability to weave together the act of acquiring plants with the creation of cherished memories. We experience the scorching Georgia sun, the interminable car rides, and the fascinating encounters with gardening veterans like Edna, Mabel, and Inez. These adventures, though sometimes frustrating for the young author, became cherished moments that now evoke a sense of fondness and appreciation.
Beyond the Surface: A Legacy of Love
The essay delves deeper when it explores the significance of the passalong tradition. These plants aren’t just flora; they’re living testaments to friendships, family ties, and shared history. Each bloom whispers stories of bygone eras, reminding the author of her grandmother’s adventurous spirit and the importance of nurturing those connections.
The Enduring Power of a Tradition
The tale concludes with a poignant reflection. The author, now a gardener herself, carries forward the legacy of passalongs. The tradition transcends the act of plant exchange; it becomes a way to connect with her late grandmother, keeping her memory alive with every trowel turn and every blooming flower.
Engaging the Reader:
The essay encourages reader participation. The invitation to share favorite passalong plants and childhood memories fosters a sense of community, allowing readers to connect with the author and each other through their shared love for gardening and the stories behind their plants.
Overall, Stacy Reece’s “Never Say Thank You for Passalong Plants” is a heartwarming and evocative piece that celebrates the enduring power of tradition, the joy of gardening, and the memories that bloom alongside beautiful flora.
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My favorite plant came from a friend of mine.She was an older lady- Ruby Padgett.She’d love to ride to a piece of property she had in the country & dig up plants from her ancestors.She was very generous with her "volunteers"These were plants that sprouted off original or reseeded themselves.She always shared them with me & had stories to go with them.Her husband was terminally ill & she had a special needs son that took a lot of her attention.lt was my birthday.She went out in the rain & cut some silver dollar plants.She dried them & peeled off their leaves & put in a vase.They are still beautiful today.They bring back fond memories of days gone by.
My mother never cared for plants, but my grandmothers made up for it. Especially Kate. She’d rather been outside than inside any day. The first plants we “landscaped” our yard with when we built our house in 1987 were wild irises and roses off the side of the road. They are still are thriving today. And lastly, I just got off the phone with my 91 year old mother who was trying to figure out who somebody was and if they had died yet. I had no idea who she was talking about, but learned long ago not to say that out loud.
My grandmother was Edna Elrod. Recently, she passed and I dug as many of her Naked Ladies as I could. Interestingly, I broke two metacarpals in the process!! The post was beautifully nostalgic. It was only now that I found out there were others who “rustled” or “liberated”. I gave my practice of doing this the term “harvesting”.