CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE: NEGLECTED GARDEN BLOSSOMS AGAIN WITH TLC

Once again, my father's gift-giving edict was "Surprise me," so my sister and I opted to get him a rosebush. He likes roses, we like roses, and since the one we picked out already had flowers on it, we're reasonably sure it will at least last the summer.

This one's a climber. Pop hasn't had much luck with climbing rosebushes. They climb for miles, but never seem to bloom. I guess we shall see what we shall see.

Since we bought the thing, it seemed only reasonable that we plant it, and so there we were Sunday morning after Father's Day brunch, digging a hole for the new rosebush.

It wasn't noon yet, and the temperature and humidity were both well over 80.

Once the hole was dug and the rosebush snugly in place and well watered, it was time to tend to the rest of the flowerbeds.

There aren't really that many. There's the big bed with the rosebushes, a terraced retaining wall on one side now populated mostly with remnants of tulips and daffodils, a few hostas, some honeysuckle and lots of volunteer maples, and the small bed in front, which is home to some very hardy Missouri primroses, leftover daffodils, a peony that's never bloomed and lots of red clover.

Actually, there are new tenants this summer. A few years ago -- the fall after my mother died -- I dug out that bed and planted some lilies and the aforementioned daffodils.

Never saw hide nor hair nor sprout of the lilies until this summer. In fact, my sister and I were debating what were weeds and what were flowers, and I nearly opted for uprooting the lilies.

I figured the bulbs had rotted in the clay that makes up every portion of the yard we decided to plant flowers in, but I was wrong.

My sister, who can barely tell a geranium from a cedar tree, informed me authoritatively that it sometimes takes four or five years for lilies to sprout.

She has a master's degree. She should know.

So we spent a while longer in the heat and humidity, pulling up clover and grass and more volunteer maples, all the while trying not to bother the primroses or the newly discovered lilies.

The peony's on its own. I nearly killed myself trying to get the thing into the ground and it hasn't rewarded me with so much as a lousy petal, so I can't be too protective of it.

Unless it actually flowers some year. I think the picture on the little tag showed dark pink blooms, but I can't remember that far back.

The lilies were a pleasant surprise. I planted several things that dark autumn, mostly bulbs, and except for a few of the daffodils, nothing ever seemed to sprout. Maybe I somehow infected the bulbs or the soil with my sadness.

It seems fitting that they sprout now. After a few years of pushing her memory firmly away, I dream of my mother once in a while now, and she always seems glad to see me and still offers advice, whether I want it or not.

Some things never change.

The lilies haven't bloomed yet, but they will in another week or so, I think. If I remember right, they should be red, speckled with black. That's what the package showed, anyway.

Pulling weeds and watering and mulching are good therapy for idle hands and melancholy, and sometimes memories need tending just as much as gardens do. When things get overgrown, it's too easy to mistake lilies for weeds and friendly ghosts for phantasms.

Sometimes you just have to wait and see what flowers.

~Peggy O'Farrell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.