The Faerie Bush

“Where is that girl?!”

Through most of my childhood, there were a few possible answers to that question. One: “She’s under the deck, playing Huck Finn.” Two: “She’s at the train tracks, looking to find her smashed pennies.” Three: “She’s out front under the faerie bush, daydreaming.” (Rarely, I should note – with the sheepish full disclosure that comes with adulthood – was the response: “She’s doing her chores in the barn” or, even more unusual: “She’s weeding the garden.”)

If one were looking for a common thread in the above, it would be that “that girl” had quite an imagination, which was handy for a kid growing up in the country. The faerie bush was one of my favorite places in the world at the time. My folks set this plant in the ground to the left of the front door of our house, which faced west with an expansive view of the Rocky Mountains. And like so many front doors, ours was rarely used, the back entrance being so much more convenient.

The faerie bush was big, and seemed to grow magically larger every year. The branches grew densely enough that a small girl could crawl between them and have a whole world to herself. The bush stood out for its color as much as its size; the leaves were magic, too. Every spring the plant would leaf out in a brilliant yellow, and while the rest of the world deepened into the greens of summer, the faerie bush glowed golden all through the season.

With its clearly magical properties, and undisturbed by the daily comings and goings of a busy family, the faerie bush became an enchanted place. And so of course faeries could be found there… if one was very quiet and respectful and took the time to look oh-so-carefully among the branches in the dappled shade beneath the leaves. I spent hours nestled in the faerie bush, oblivious to scratches, dirt, and bugs. I read; I wrote stories; and I daydreamed. Even when I wasn’t in the bush, it made me happy simply to know it was there and that the faeries were probably up to all sorts of mischief in my absence.

I had no idea what the proper name was for this plant. I insisted to the family that it was the faerie bush. Over time, everyone came to call it by that name with (as I far as I remember) not a touch of skepticism. That was part of the magic of the faerie bush; it made believers out of everyone – even my rough-and-tumble little brother. We are a lucky family in many respects; that we grew up with a faerie bush outside the front door of our home is but one blessing. 

I don’t remember how old I was when disaster struck. Probably old enough that it shouldn’t have mattered so much. But one year, suddenly and without warning, I found the faerie bush hacked (in my eyes) to within an inch of its life. If I’d been a more active participant in my yard chores, the idea of “pruning” might not have come as such a shock. Nevertheless, I was devastated. I’m sure there were tears. But there was no longer a hidden nook for me to tuck into and, more importantly, there was no place for the faeries to hide. I stomped my feet and accused my poor mother of killing the faerie bush. I’m sure she tried to explain that it was only temporary; that it would grow again; that it had gotten too big so close to the house; that it was necessary for the plant’s health. I would have none of her patient wisdom in the matter. I believe I even proclaimed that henceforth, it was the faerie bush no longer. It was just a plain old bush.

Mother wisdom is kind and gentle, but it is usually sagacious well, and of course my Mom was quietly correct about the bush growing back. But I was growing up and my attentions were turning elsewhere (still not to gardening chores, however).

Despite this great trauma of my youth, I grew up to eventually have a home of my own, far from the Rocky Mountains, with a front door that doesn’t get used and is graced on either side with beautiful hydrangeas. Like magic, every summer they grow in leaps and bounds and the branches bow under the weight of their beautiful blue and purple globes. I don’t have much time to sit quietly beside them, but every so often I think I catch a glimpse of something frolicking in the shade of the hydrangeas’ large, graceful leaves.

I have to prune these plants back mercilessly each year, and every time it kills me to do it. And every single time, I think about the faerie bush, and my Mom. It occurred to me recently that I still didn’t know what type of bush it actually was. So I sent her a text; did she happen to remember? Her response: “Of course, darlin’. The old memories stay with us old folks! It was a golden elder.”

Let me state for the record that my Mom is not old. But I do think it’s pretty magical that all along the faerie bush was something called a “golden elder.” And in case you’re disinclined to believe in magic: it’s been over two decades since we all lived in that house and our lives have changed in so many ways, but every one of us (rough-and-tumble brother included) still calls it the “faerie bush.” Perhaps even more magical is the fact that I grew into an adult who can be found, more often than not, happily at work on her gardening chores. (I’ve learned that I can daydream and pull weeds at the same time.)