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Our Little Corner
Last Thursday, I drove through an intersection near Sacramento State University that I often take whenever I’m headed to mid-town. Delayed by a signal and quite a long line of traffic, I had time to look around and was struck by how barren one corner looked—just bare dirt and quite a bit of it. Maybe it’s been that way for a while and I haven’t noticed. But as I sat there, a memory from years ago surfaced. I remembered how beautiful this intersection used to be. Wild flowers bloomed in the ditches, annuals brightened the sides of the road, and the bases of the trees in the median wore circles of seasonal color.
More than 40 years ago while attending graduate school, I rode my bike or walked that area almost daily on my way to classes. Back then, I often saw an older woman working in those gardens. While students hurried off to class and commuters rushed through the intersection, she knelt in the dirt, planting flowers, pulling weeds, watering, and tending whatever needed tending. I always said hello to her when I passed, but I never knew her name. Over the years I watched as more color inched its way down the two streets marking the entrance to her beloved neighborhood.
Maybe the bare dirt that caught my attention is being prepared for a new planting. Maybe there’s a surprise coming. Remnants of the beautiful gardens that once welcomed me with blooms and carefully tended beds weren’t quite as colorful as I remembered. What happened?
When I arrived home, curiosity got the better of me. I started searching. I’m still amazed that so much information is literally at our fingertips. My Google search wasn’t exactly elegant: “River Park (Sacramento) volunteer who planted the medians along H and Carlson. What happened to her?” Seconds later—there she was.
Her name was Frances “Fran” Yermolkaitis, though most people knew her simply as the Flower Lady. Dissatisfied with an unattractive stretch of roadway that was the entrance to her neighborhood, Fran decided to do something about it. Beginning in the 1980s, she and her husband Roy transformed the entrance to River Park one flower at a time.
Before long, she had persuaded the city to remove asphalt medians, install irrigation, bury a drainage ditch, and create planting areas. She recruited local businesses to help prepare the soil and contribute funds towards the effort. She even finessed money from the City. Friends and neighbors joined her. Fran and her husband grew thousands of annuals in her own backyard nursery, and over the years planted an estimated 30,000 flowers.
Thirty thousand. And I am pooped after planting a couple of pony packs. Fran loved flowers. Her middle name: Violet. She continued tending those gardens until just days before her death in 2009 at the age of ninety-four.
As I kept searching and reading more, I learned that a memorial fountain now honors Fran and Roy. Members of the River Park Garden Club and neighborhood volunteers still care for many of the gardens she began. They prune, water, transplant, and weed. They even hand-watered plants when city irrigation was shut off during one particularly hot summer.
Her mission of love continues. Not at the same level as when she was doing it—fewer annuals and more perennials. But gardens, like people, bear the fingerprints of those who tend them. Change is inevitable.
What I like about this story is more than just flowers and Fran. I love being reminded of those behind-the-scenes people who dedicate themselves to serving our communities without expecting applause.
Every neighborhood has them. They’re the people who refill the Little Free Library before anyone notices it’s empty. They decorate the church for Christmas. They arrive early to set up chairs. They coach Little League, organize food drives, visit lonely neighbors, deliver meals, weed community gardens, or pick up litter along the roadside because they simply can’t bear to walk past it.
Most of us don’t know their names. We simply enjoy the trails of beauty and kindness they leave behind. Only when they stop or leave us do we realize how much they had been doing. And, it may take some of us a while to even notice. Fran the Flower Lady died 17 years ago, and I’m just now asking what happened to her. Asking because I sat at a signal and spotted an unattractive corner and remembered that “older” woman who bent over those gardens daily for thirty years. Given her age when she died, that makes her probably early sixties when she started. Maybe it was her answer to retirement.
I’m going to find out what’s on the plan for that barren corner. I have my sources other than Google. I loved learning about Fran and Roy and revisiting a fun memory. I also found myself smiling at another realization. Back then I thought of Fran as old. Looking back now, she was likely in her early sixties when she began transforming that intersection. Funny how our definition of “old” keeps moving as the years pile up.
Ten years ago, I decided my pool needed to become a pond and my backyard a sanctuary for birds and bees. I love the result, but I am not Fran. Gardening does not call to me. I like a bit of wild, but the sanctuary has slipped a little further into the wild than I intended. Everything calls for attention.
I figured there must be someone out there who loves getting their hands in the dirt and transforming landscapes. I needed a Fran. I set my intention and my prayers were answered.
From my friend down the street, I learned about a gardening team who will come every week to help restore my yard. I interviewed them as we toured the overgrowth and they are excited to get started. So am I. Anticipating their weekly visits motivated me to get started even before they did.
I trimmed back an overgrown climber that had begun swallowing everything around it. Raked leaves that had been building up under the succulents and moved a few plants to happier spots. With help, I hauled a red bench out of the garage and tucked it beside the pond where I can sit with my morning coffee and enjoy the view—a view that will be transforming right before my eyes over the next few weeks.
I also bought some gazanias and planted them along the front walkway to my home—a task I had been putting off because it involved a lot of weeding and prepping the soil. I’ve looked out my front door several times to admire the new planting. I’m already anticipating the joy of having someone loving on my yard and bringing it back from the brink.
When it comes to gardening, I’m good for occasional sprints. Give me fabric or yarn or a subject to write about, and I’m up for a marathon. We each have our passions. There are a multitude of ways to make a difference in our own little corners. Our world is held together by countless acts of faithful tending.
Next time I stop at that intersection, I’ll take note of the flowers—or the bare dirt—but now I’ll also think about Fran who spent over thirty years planting 30,000 flowers—her mission—making that corner of Sacramento more beautiful than she found it.
Her commitment made me wonder. What are we tending today that will last when we are no longer here? We all have something entrusted to our care.
Will what we’ve been given be a little healthier, kinder, or more beautiful because we were here? I’m grateful for all of those who can answer that question with a “yes.” They are the ones stitching communities together with their love. That’s how communities bloom.