Two-year-old Billy Jones of Wilmot, South Dakota plucked a geranium from his mother Jean’s flower box in August of 1957, and shoved it into the face of sister Lois Ann, 1. We can only hope that Lois gathered her rosebuds while she may, and lived a life of being fully present and carpe-ing the diem. We also hope that neither sibling is perched atop red diner chairs anymore, as a broken hip could only make 2020 that much worse.
Charles Sturdee tends to the lamppost garden blooms on Camden, Maine’s main street. A blacksmith made the wire basket, and the Camden Garden Club provided the geraniums, petunias, and vines, adding to the beauty of the town.
This picture of the Camden, Maine public library was taken exactly 40 years later, lamppost gardens still in bloom.
That very same year, Mr. Sturdee passed away, after years of service to the town, including 19 years with the Camden Police Department. We all make a difference in this life, even if it’s just watering the flowers.
I’ve heard of stopping and smelling the roses, but I hadn’t heard this twist on it.
I don’t believe I’ve ever stopped to smell the rosé. Perhaps a cab sav, but not a rosé.
Evidently Hillary Duff enjoys a good rosé.
Perhaps you should pop a cork this evening! After all, it IS Wine Wednesday.
Y’all, the horehound has not lessened up around here. In fact, the highways are flanked by even thicker and pinkier/purplier horehound than ever. It’s the horehoundiest season that Texas has ever seen, no doubt. The more I see them, the more they remind me of my Swiffer hand dusters, narrow enough to get to even the most trapped dust.
Horehound. It’s everywhere in central Texas. Field after field of purple horehounds (technically “black” horehound), presumably from our unusually ample downpours.
What I find curious is that Google has no matches for “fields of horehound,” and that vexes me. So while I understand that this post is of little interest to any readers, it behooves me to have to document that there are, in fact, fields of horehound.
I’m not exaggerating when I say the bees have been swarming our holly bushes by the hundreds, maybe thousands. As soon as we open the front door, we can hear their deafening buzz, trying to avoid their erratic trails as they flit from blossom to blossom.
And while I do suffer from melissophobia, I know that this is good for the bees, and good for the earth. But I do count down the days till they shoo away because I HATE BEE STINGS. So I stand back and let them go at the holly bushes, ten feet wide and taller than I am.
At Honolulu airport, a young woman packs the heads of torch ginger in cellophane preservers. The article stated that “its stalk grows 3-6 ft high,” sometimes towering over those handling them.