The mimosa tree that I remember grow in my paternal grandmother's yard. My mother's parents were agricultural workers and moved around a lot. I have no particular memory of a home associated with them, though I remember bits and pieces of different places. My father's folks had fared a bit better economically. They owned their own land and when I think of a grandparents' house, it is their home that I think of. I can mentally walk every inch of the place - the house, the yard, the barn, the windmill, the garage, the pastures - all of it vivid and real to my mind's eye though there is little of it left to recognize when driving by today. We spent lots of time there, particularly in the summer months. The window of the room I slept in opened onto a red rose bush and a mimosa tree. I had sweet, sweet smells to take up to, the windows, in those days without air conditioning, being always open.
There is a second association of this particular print with my childhood. In nudging it toward the vision I had for it, I added the reddish color in the leaves with poke berry juice. Poke salad was a staple of our diet when it was in season, and it seems an obvious omission from my leaf collection, though all the specimens in the collection are trees. Perhaps that was the assignment. I'm not sure why I would have had such a singular focus otherwise.