As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, we bought our new home in the dead of winter, without benefit of ever having seen the actual property, which was buried under about 8,000 feet of snow. (See photo at right.)
What we could see was spectacular: a bucolic frozen panorama that sparkled in the living room windows and that we could wave to as we skidded down the icy driveway.
But by the time we moved in, it was spring, and all the flowers in the neighborhood were abloom, which is a word I would never have previously used while living in a condo. The predominant floral color scheme in the entire area seemed to be purple, and Barbara would point to all the different kinds of flowers and tell me what they were, and I would pretend that I cared.
I’m a city boy at heart, you see, so all the plant identification I need is “the purple one,” or “the red one,” or “the one never to touch.” Barbara, on the other hand, had her gardening gloves on almost as soon as we were unpacked.
She was aplanting and awatering and aplucking within days, and I fully expected that, in no time at all, our property would be covered with plants that were adieing, because Barbara had previously exhibited a Kervorkian-like touch with plants.
They lasted awhile, though, but now that the dog days of summer are here, most of the color has kind of faded away like it does on an old pair of jeans, except instead of fading to the pale blue I associate with comfort, the plants faded to a greenish-brownish hue that I associate with, well, dead plants.
This, however, is the “circle of life,” and I’m sure that all the flowers will be back next spring, resplendent in their purpleness, as I stand on top of our steep driveway with a lion cub in my hands.
Meanwhile, we pay people to come and mow our lawn, not because I’m lazy, but because I refuse to use any equipment that starts by pulling a string. And that includes yo-yos.
See you soon.