They are not at my house. One would think that I don't like flowers. I really do. I just have such bad luck with them.
When we first moved into the house in Chattanooga, I planted the prettiest and healthiest flowers I could find. I studied which ones grew in shade and in clay.
The back yard demanded my attention first. Many trees shade my deck, but they also block the warming rays of light from the sun. Nevertheless, I babied those beds.
Then the gutter clogged. All of the goop inside spilled over in the beds and the flowers died.
But that wasn't going to stop me. Maybe I needed to start simple. I went and bought a beautiful basket of hanging sweet somethings to put on the porch. They were easy to care for and were portable. I could bring them in to feed them "dessert" and hang them back out to play.
They were so pretty. Even the birds thought so--especially the birds. Pretty soon nests started to appear, then baby birds. I tried again the next year. Same thing. I gave up on hanging baskets.
I never planted flowers in the middle of the front yard. When we moved here, my children were little. I wanted a place they could pitch and play catch without any obstructions. In other words, I didn't want the kids to trample the flowers.
The only luck I have had with flowers is a tiny square around my mailbox where a determined clematis fights my purple thumb. I have to admire the wiill of this fairly old beauty. She survives in the concrete that holds the post in place.
I think that makes the blooms even more beautiful and inspiring. When I sit at my desk pecking away at my laptop I glance over the screen out the window and see her. If she can survive living in the concrete, I can survive, too.
I keep typing.
I watch the seasons try to stomp it.
I keep typing.
The season sends word to her that its time to wake up. If she can do it, I can, too.
And I keep typing--allowing her inspiration to gently push me closer to my best seller.
It's amazing what a little flower can do in concrete.
Please don't send me tips on growing flowers. I learned my lesson. I prefer to be a spectator not a participant.
When we first moved into the house in Chattanooga, I planted the prettiest and healthiest flowers I could find. I studied which ones grew in shade and in clay.
The back yard demanded my attention first. Many trees shade my deck, but they also block the warming rays of light from the sun. Nevertheless, I babied those beds.
Then the gutter clogged. All of the goop inside spilled over in the beds and the flowers died.
But that wasn't going to stop me. Maybe I needed to start simple. I went and bought a beautiful basket of hanging sweet somethings to put on the porch. They were easy to care for and were portable. I could bring them in to feed them "dessert" and hang them back out to play.
They were so pretty. Even the birds thought so--especially the birds. Pretty soon nests started to appear, then baby birds. I tried again the next year. Same thing. I gave up on hanging baskets.
I never planted flowers in the middle of the front yard. When we moved here, my children were little. I wanted a place they could pitch and play catch without any obstructions. In other words, I didn't want the kids to trample the flowers.
The only luck I have had with flowers is a tiny square around my mailbox where a determined clematis fights my purple thumb. I have to admire the wiill of this fairly old beauty. She survives in the concrete that holds the post in place.
I think that makes the blooms even more beautiful and inspiring. When I sit at my desk pecking away at my laptop I glance over the screen out the window and see her. If she can survive living in the concrete, I can survive, too.
I keep typing.
I watch the seasons try to stomp it.
I keep typing.
The season sends word to her that its time to wake up. If she can do it, I can, too.
And I keep typing--allowing her inspiration to gently push me closer to my best seller.
It's amazing what a little flower can do in concrete.
Please don't send me tips on growing flowers. I learned my lesson. I prefer to be a spectator not a participant.
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