The poppy, in all its varieties, is a quite wonderful flower. Huge and soft as a landmark blossom, or delicate and small and scattered through a field of cornflowers and daisies, even among the crosses in Flanders’ fields - the poppy gives me intense pleasure. Many things do, of course, but this one suggests an elusive, evanescent aesthetic that runs contrary to everything I know about myself or could tell you about my life (which I like to think of as sensible and reliable and fairly solid). 'The poppy' has come to represent the wild element or 'sport' that escapes, almost inexplicably, from the plan.
Some of you may have seen the story of my husband’s Japanese garden featured on Recreating Eden. Many years ago now, Kieran set to work with rocks and water to create a contemplative space. He worked incredibly hard in a small area at the back of our lot to build a spare, understated combination of rocks and moss and water that gives us both great joy. Me, I work incredibly hard in a very much larger space and with a significant variety of elements, achieving a much more hit-and-miss delight (the 'miss' being sometimes affected by the season and sometimes by my own ignorance or folly), but the truth is, I have none of his control over my elements—and one reason is 'the poppy'.
We're not talking about fine botanical distinctions, though I think it's the Icelandic Poppy (Papaver nudicaule) that pops up all over my garden in yellow and red. The California Poppy (Eschscholzia californica) has also come to stay, crowding into spaces that I would not have considered welcoming at all, in nooks and crannies, even deeply rooting among my formal and intentional plantings. This is true of all the varieties that drop by for a visit and end up staying. So, for example, I have a cluster of Iris in a fine show spot—with large red 
poppies deeply rooted in its midst. I did not choose that. Nature, or the poppy, chose and I accept that I shall never have the sort of garden I see in photographs. How do other people ensure that only Iris grow where only Iris was intended to grow? How do other gardeners manage to dominate Nature -or 'the poppy'? At least it’s not a horsetail, or morning glory. In fact, truth be told, where other people pull weeds, I thank everything that blooms for self-seeding and thriving in the Garden of Egan—not only in official flower borders but also along walls, among shrubs, and ensconced in other plantings. Especially where the poppy is concerned, I accept 'invasive' not as defeat but as celebration.
The real question is not how do other people manage (though I'm very open to learning about that) but, rather, what is it about poppies and me? We have, in fact, a very personal history that dates back to a pot-luck, multi-family Christmas dinner more than thirty years ago. Our hosts had laid three or four rectangular tables end to end and united them with an immensely long roll of paper tablecloth, white with a rather attractive poppy border. The gathering was most congenial, including at least three generations- lots of good food and wine, lots of laughter, lots of noisy and happy children. However, as we were clearing up and our host was scooping up the now rather grubby paper table covering to chuck into the garbage (no blue boxes back then), I cried out in dismay: Surely you’re not going to throw out all those lovely poppies? Well, being the sort of man who ensures all guests are happy, he found his kitchen scissors and proceeded to cut the poppy border down the yards and yards of one side of the cloth and then down the yards and yards of the other side of the cloth, folded his pieces neatly, and presented me with a sizeable pile - of poppy paper. Both he and many of my fellow guests found this all very silly and amusing, but not me. I used that poppy paper as gift-wrap for decades to come. In fact, I think there’s still a scrap in the cupboard that came back to me in some gift exchange. And I became known among our friends as 'the poppy lady'.
What is a poppy lady? Not just someone who can’t control weeds in her garden and not just someone who wraps gifts in an old tablecloth. It’s someone to whom everyone she knows sends postcards of poppies when they’re away. Other people receive postcards of castles and churches. I receive Monet’s poppies from Giverny (from people who have been nowhere near Giverny or any Monet painting). Or a Georgia O’Keefe special - again representing no personal experience of New Mexico or any of the galleries featuring O’Keefe’s work. (Occasionally, I also receive images of red tulips or anemones, but these must be from people who never took the MG Basic Course.)
Poppies in postcards came to mean something rather different from “Having a wonderful time, wish you were here”. They were not about the holiday but about our connections with each other as people who both smiled with delight when we saw poppies—and when we saw each other. And they were much more than a private joke because people who had not been at that Christmas dinner would see the poppy gallery growing on my wall at work—and send me more cards. I have several poppy magnets, one silk poppy on a tall wire stem, poppy designs on boxes, tea towels, tablecloths, dishes. Kieran tiled our new kitchen (new more than thirty years ago) with poppy tiles.
In fact, for quite a long while, poppies became even more aggressive in my life than in my garden. However, where I may regret (from time to time) that I can’t, with all my best efforts, keep my garden tidy or intentional, I have noticed over the years (and years) that poppies always give rise to quite spontaneous pleasure - and not just in me - friends, students, colleagues may have been amused to see them all over my office wall - but I’m talking about the light in the eyes, the smile of shared joy in the poppy’s vivid generosity of shape and audacity of colour, its fragile, random, and unexpected joyfulness.
But there's something more than vivid colour and a life-force that resists control, and something more, too, than happy memories of good friends. Poppies, growing in a wall in Jerusalem near the Struthion Pool apparently built by Herod the Great during his reconstruction of the Temple Mount, demonstrate not only that these flowers will grow and bloom in the most meager circumstances, but also with the possibility that they have been doing so for millennia. Perennial takes on new value when I think in these terms.
Susanna Egan
Master Gardener, Vancouver Chapter
