...Occasionally looking at the butterfly that could not get enough of my French sun screen.
In the afternoon, I finally turned my back to the paper that had me in despair [after reading endless tidbits about the state of imported seafood in this country (do not eat it!)] and finally settled down to write class notes (I teach a summer course. Coming up. Yes, I know, all good things, etc etc.).
My work spurt didn’t last. Within a couple of hours, I was in Ed’s pick-up again, zipping down to my favorite plants people this side of the Mississippi – the dedicated growers over at the Flower Factory.
I grew up on that place. It started small, I started small. It expanded, I expanded. It continued to expand... me, I retracted. I left my perennial gardens and moved downtown two years ago. Sadly, I no longer had reason to visit the Flower Factory.
Still, life changes and so do planting potentials. As of Thursday, I am a woman with a balcony. All else is irrelevant. The condo is nowhere near finished. The plumbing isn’t in, the cabinets aren’t built, and yet still, my little patio already looks like a place to write home about. At least to me it looks like that.
And so today I buy more flowers…
…and I skip along through the greenhouses, remembering how each year on Mother’s Day I forced my kids to accompany me here as I spent endless dollars building perennial beds.
I should have taken photos, but I was too busy selecting perennials (Shhh! I know perennials do not belong on a patio – I’ll move them later). I did take one or two, of the plants that are consistently photogenic – the waterlilies.
Oh, and the pond with the fish. That’s always fun to focus on.
I go to the condo in the early evening. I leave the under $1000 truck just outside the overpriced condo and I carry plants up the fancy elevators to the unfinished unit, where I again put things into soil for hours and water it all with the help of toilet bowl water.
By the way, thank you for your words of encouragement, you emailers and commenters. You’re the best. And thank you to the Tour de France, which, each evening, has managed to distract me with its steady routine as 79 men have continued to rotate wheels of bicycles up and down. And up and then down once more. So relaxing to watch.
Really.
