Four flower pots line my office windowsill.

Each contains an African violet grown from a humble leaf cutting that my grandmother started many years ago on her own kitchen windowsill.

Who could know how much those four little pots would change our lives?

Plants were the connection between my grandma and myself. They were the one frivolity in her life. Her garden was the envy of every neighbor on her small little block in Junction City, Kan. Beds of iris bulbs, handed down from her mother and grandmother, lined its outer border. While next to the house roses, petunias and dozens of other blooming plants vied for attention in the small oasis of color and perfume. I adored that garden and her as well.

The irony was, I wasn't exactly the most talented gardener. My road of good intentions was littered with plastic pots filled with dry dirt and shriveled houseplants. And, though she tried, Grandma just couldn't teach me how to be a master gardener like herself.

I lost track of how many African violet cuttings and detailed instructions she gave me over the course of my lifetime. Most shuffled off to that great flower bed in the sky within a few weeks of my neglect. Even with Grandma's wisdom, and my innate desire, I still was a Black Thumb. Finally, when I turned 20 or so, she and I tactfully agreed that perhaps my horticultural urges could be channeled in other ways. So, from then on I was allowed to admire, but not touch Grandma's plants.

A doctor's diagnosis of Parkinson's Disease a year or so later made Grandma realize that her garden and houseplants, once the joys of her life, would eventually become a burden. We all decided it was probably best that she move into a smaller, easier to care for apartment closer to my aunt and uncle. On the day of her auction, I watched with sorrow as the gavel came down selling the house and its flower beds. But, when the auctioneer came to the set of houseplants for sale, I did something completely bizarre--I raised my hand and bid on the last four African violets.

The family thought I'd surely lost my mind. Grandma simply smiled and wished for me good luck.

I brought the violets here to my cubicle at the Journal and, to my amazed delight they not only survived--thank Heaven--but they thrived. Pretty soon, buds started showing and for the first time, a living, green plant actually bloomed under my care.

The event was so newsworthy I took pictures and sent them to Grandma and the rest of the family. Some skeptics asked if I'd paid the HPJ Art Department for their photo retouching work or if I'd bought replacements from Wal-Mart.

Grandma just took the news with a knowing smile.

As wonderful as it was to discover my latent green thumb, though, there was one seemingly healthy violet that never bloomed. Even Grandma--with all of her wisdom--couldn't find a reason why it wouldn't flower, so we decided to leave it alone and let nature take over.

Months after our discussion of the non-blooming violet, on a snowy February morning, my mom called to tell me that Grandma had taken a turn for the worse. I hurried to the hospital and said my good-byes. A week later, she was gone.

I got through the following days on autopilot, grieving as I worked. And, while I grieved, on the windowsill of my cubicle that one plant that wouldn't bloom slowly changed into a showcase of ruffled purple blossoms. And, it was joined by the other three violets blooming just as prettily.

Was it luck and chance? Was it the new potting soil and fertilizer she'd recommended a month before? Or, was it a last sign of my grandma's love and confidence in me?

Only the four flower pots on the windowsill know for sure, and they aren't talking.

Jennifer Latzke can be reached by phone at 620-227-1807, or by e-mail at jlatzke@hpj.com.

Date: 5/10/05

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