When I was a girl Violet was an old fashioned name. It brought to mind elderly women in sensible shoes who attended church every Sunday and Garden Club once a month.

My Grandmother, Violet Elliott was such a woman.

She tended a lovely country garden under majestic oak trees.

Below her kitchen window Violet Elliott grew lily of the valley, and in spring happy daffodils popped up in her front garden. She kept a fine collection of delicate ferns at her back door and was proud of her large walnut tree.

The plants Violet Elliott loved to grow the most was her namesake, violets.

This photo shows violets in my garden with their late winter flowers. I grew them from a cutting taken from my mother’s garden, who was given the original cutting by her mother, Violet Elliott.

My violets amaze me. They survived a ten-year drought, the heat of a record summer and this winter’s deep cold. But here they are as bright as can be.

I am proud to grow these resilient violets cultivated from Violet Elliott’s original plants and naturally they remind me of her.

Farmers’ wives of Violet Elliott’s vintage endured husbands at war and usually had lots of children to raise. They took challenges and hardships in their stride.

In the same way, my hardy violets seem to take everything the weather can throw at them.

The name Violet has recently become popular again. In years to come, when these young Violets of today are grown women, perhaps they will also grow violets in their gardens as my Grandmother did.

But most of all, I hope these little girls will grow into resilient women like Violet Elliott.

JT