As a child, playing in the backyard during summer days was no small thing.  The yard was home to many wonders, but none more impressive than the elephant ear plants. They stood tall and proud, their massive green leaves like velvet sails, catching the breeze and making the yard shimmer with life. To the untrained eye, they were just ordinary plants, albeit larger than most. But to the ones who played there—they were the undisputed royalty of the backyard. 

Reigning over the yard until the last leaf fell in autumn, my mom’s elephant ear plants were known as the Queen of the Garden.  In our Roseland neighborhood, where each house seemed to have its own little corner of nature, there was a garden unlike any other. It wasn’t the most colorful, nor the most meticulously arranged, but it had something that drew people in—friends and neighbors always wanted to take a look at mom’s elephant ear plants.  Folks could see them from the sidewalk, towering and proud, their lush leaves with thick green veins waving in the wind.

People would ask, “Where did you get them from?” or “Can I have a piece of that plant?”  Mom would always say, “You can grow your own.”

They started as small bulbs, no bigger than the size of a pear, but with mom’s tender care, they had grown into magnificent plants, each with massive leaves stretching to the sky. Mom and dad put all their love and devotion into cultivating our family in the same way they did each and every plant that grew in our garden.  It wasn’t just about the elephant ears, though.  Mom and dad had always been proud of their garden, of how they nurtured all the plants that grew there.  We had an apple tree, a huge cherry tree, grapes, greens, squash, peppers, plenty tomatoes, and much more.  I know, our parents had all of us out there planting and picking when the time was right.  There was always deep satisfaction in watching them grow and watching them thrive.