Mirabilis Jalapa

Shannon Ribich

In Wisconsin, when maple syrup tapping is long gone and daffodils have had their day, weigelas are some of the first shrubs to hold promise of that impending summer bloom. Bold in guise, these perennials spill over landscape beds in undeniable lure. Under bright or cloudy skies, they welcome a familiar hope for warmer and longer days.

My grandmother was visiting the gardens I worked at one late spring. An admirer of flora, she marveled at every corner. Fiery red tulips had their last hoorah, and the gardens were now quietly nestling into anticipation for the summer solstice. Sleepy buds, not quite awake, could be found on most trees. My grandma found the garden’s pink weigela. Rich in color with grabbling, trumpetlike flowers, it is naturally a star in an orchestra of late spring blooms.

“Esta planta me recuerda a una de mi niñez,” she began. In her native Spanish tongue, she had said the plant reminded her of another one from her girlhood. “We would plop the little flowers in our ears, letting them dangle like earrings, dancing around.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Ya sabes, juegos de niña.” You know, little girl play.

Eager for more exploration, she continued her garden tour, the recollection quietly escaping with the soft breeze. I stood there, trying to hold onto this flashback that wasn’t mine. Something had switched; I felt lighter. I saw the colorful hues in my enclosure with a buoyancy I hadn’t before. Carefully, I tucked my grandmother’s memory away inside a small nook of my own mind. I followed her; it was a splendid day after all.

The next day as I stuck my hands in the soil, near the same weigela, my thoughts traveled to a different place; the kind of place where the sun always warms my skin enough so that drinking tart limeade with cane sugar feels good. Daydreaming about Mexico, I snapped back to the weigela near me. I sat and stared, and I thought about my abuela again, my Mami Saura,as all the grandkids affectionately call her. I felt my throat swell. Why hadn’t I asked her the name of this plant? Did she know? I made a resolution to find out.

The next time I visited Mami Saura, I sat down with her on the front porch.

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I pursued the botanical mystery.

“I don’t remember the name Sylvestre? Maybe. No. They were flowers that were like a tube. They were white, pink, yellow, all sorts of colors. They grew wild in the village, but you can’t find them there anymore,” she thoughtfully recounted. She got up to water her lined up pots, mostly geranium starts, her favorites. Living in a rental, her dream and love of gardens lived in containers she proudly showed me anytime I stopped by. Soon, our conversation turned to our family’s history with San Juan Ixtayopan, her home.

Ixtayopan is Nahuatl in origin and can be translated into “place of white earth.” Before San Jan became a famous battleground between federal troops and the Zapatista army, it was largely a Chichimeca settlement. Chichimeca was a word used by the Nahua peoples of Mexico for nomadic or semi-nomadic tribes. My family on my grandmother’s side has lived in San Juan Ixtayopan since the early 1900s, though any blueprint before this does not exist.

Later I sat in my bed, computer on my lap, replaying my grandmother’s vague description of her childhood blooms. I didn’t know how to begin searching. There were thousands of native Mexican plants. Yet, I was committed to finding her earrings.

As became the case during most of my evenings of research, I found myself in deep thought about my Mami Saura. I could see her in my mind. Small and long before she’d leave to work for the city at twelve years old. Long before she’d decide to cross the desert with her children right behind, following the brightest star that would lead her to the land she thought might be free. In San Juan Ixtayopan, she danced with flowers in her ears.

My quest had come with more than just botanical curiosity. I hoped to honor her. I wanted to trace back to something that tells a story about who she was and is. I wanted physical evidence of her life.

If I believed in absolute coincidences, the next visit with my grandma would have been just a big miraculous one.

“Flor de maravilla!” she exclaimed. “That’s what we called it.”

Not daring to believe we could’ve found the plant, I quickly googled “Flor de maravilla, Mexico.” Knowing the substance my search lacked, I still couldn’t help but let hope take seed. The wonder came when Mirabilis jalapa popped up. I clicked on images. Mami Saura looked over my shoulder. A smile slowly played on her lips.

We had found her magical earrings. Sweetness like fresh lilacs spilled into the air. We sat on her creaking porch with the chipping paint, the beauty of discovery and memory swaddling us the rest of the afternoon.

I found little documentation, perhaps indicating my own research

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inexperience. However, I did find that Mirabilis jalapa is a self-seeding, perennial shrub native to tropical Latin America that produces thin, funnel-shaped flowers. They grow in many colors. The blooms typically open in the late afternoon, allowing their aromatic fragrance to fill the air until morning when the flowers close. This striking process begins the following evening with new flowers. Sometimes, if cloudy, they make a surprise appearance at an earlier time. I read that this plant is believed to have been cultivated since the Aztec Empire days. They may have used Mirabilis jalapa medicinally and ornamentally.

I thought back to my own wedding not too long ago. I had stood near Lake Michigan, committing to sharing life with my now-husband until death might do us apart with roses in my hair. I suppose I’d chosen to adorn myself with the generous giving of the earth. Almost like my grandma had as a little girl.

Mami Saura’s memory moved mountains inside of me because, honestly, how silly! And beautiful! She ran around, two Flor de Maravillas flying from her tiny ears. Never mind that she didn’t have shoes to wear or that her breakfast was a rolled corn tortilla with salt. In those moments, while she twirled with the earth, magic was possible. This was a new thought in a new light for me; I can embrace plants in a whimsical way.

I’ve long had a relationship with plants. Tomatoes in a greenhouse have the best smell, bright and earthy. And it’s easier to breathe near big trees.

I also love stories. Together, these two fueled the quest for my abuela’s childhood earrings. What resulted was deep appreciation and remembrance of the harmonizing narrative stories and plants can bring.

They speak of promise…long awaited blooms after dark, cold days. Mirabilis jalapa and weigela, two very different shrubs, brought generations and cultures together. They brought my grandmother and I together.

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