My grandfather immigrated from Hungary in the late 1800's. He loved Strauss waltzes.
When he arrived in the United States, he worked at a meat packing plant, a very dangerous and low paying job, but he was glad to have the work.
Soon after he found work in the midwest, working the land, and starting a life in a new country. He stayed in South Dakota all his life, and except for a few trips to California to visit his only grandchild (me!), he never roamed far from Aberdeen in South Dakota.
He met my grandmother there, also an immigrant, from Russia, and together they made a life, had two daughters, and a fabulous garden.
My grandpa was unable to read or write fluently, but was a hard worker, and despite being maimed in a hunting accident early in his marriage, which paralyzed one arm, he became a successful and proud janitor at the local Catholic High School and was beloved by many.
Yet, despite the full life that he made for himself, and his family, I could tell as I got older that he longed for his true home in Hungary, and I know that listening to Strauss waltzes brought him joy because they took him back to those early days, to his first family.
So today, both my mom's irises and her dad's waltz combine.
The perfect antidote to a week of angst. The garden can always be a place of hope and healing, and remembrance.