Archives for posts with tag: Flowers

My moonflower looked like it was going to bloom yesterday:

 

We checked it every hour. The dog lifted her little paw up to try and help. She’s so damn cute sometimes it nearly makes my heart burst. We even set our alarm for two AM to catch the moonflower off-guard (yes, I’m that kind of nerd). No luck. This morning the bud had folded in on itself like a fat teenager at a middle school dance.

On a better note, as the heat descends on Minneapolis, I had a nice little Sunday run. Maybe my fitness dreams aren’t as derailed as I thought.

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When I was five or six a bee stung me on the face. That’s the only time I can remember being stung. I ran home screaming and my mother called my grandmother, the WWII nurse. Our neighbor was a nurse, so was my great-aunt, but for some reason she called my grandmother. The advice? The cure she offered?

“Stick an onion on it,” she said. My family is built on old wives’ tales.

This little guy pollinating my flower boxes reminded me of that first sting:

Someday I want to gather together all the bits of silly counter-intuitive advice and life philosophies and superstitions. Is any of it true? Did that onion work? Did it work because I believed it would? Because my grandmother said it would? Some of it must be true. Otherwise, how would I know that lots of acorns in the fall means that the coming winter will be long and brutal?

I like the thick humid Minneapolis summer, so do my flowers:

And the cauliflower plant is protecting the cutest damn golfball-sized bud I’ve ever seen.

The dog, however, required a summer buzz-cut  just to keep from throwing herself to the grass after a five minute walk.

When I left for Iowa, the deck garden – flowers, tomatos, peppers, basil, brussel sprouts and califlower – couldn’t exactly be described as flourishing. After a week alone things have changed:

The mini petunias are trailing.

First baby sprout has sprouted.

 I think the plants are trying to break up with me.

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