I don't know if it was the long, cool spring or if this happens after a hot and horrid lengthy drought, but I've been looking out every morning and seeing a patchwork of color. Most of my plants are old; after all, I've had these gardens for 40 years. So maybe a drought works like a fire, plants die back to the ground then suddenly renew themselves at the first opportunity. Seems like even my old plants are very happy to have another chance at living, following the crunchy brown-ness of last summer.
I know my blooms are repeating themselves here in these images, but they're so happy to be here it's fine with me if they bloom over and over again till Christmas. Here are some of my thoughts as I wandered through the dew this morning, and yes, I do, I talk to my plants.
"Well hello there, just look at you. You came here from the mountains years and years ago and you sure are pretty peeking out from the frilly foliage of the tansy. No bugs on you, ladies, the tansy keeps them away."
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"And here, three pretty faces all in a row, you came from Uncle Bill in a shoe box, one of my first daylilies that wasn't orange. Happy faces and so pretty to be so old."
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And from Holly, a beautiful student who decided I needed purple in my garden. She was an angel in life and my garden angel even now that she's gone. How beautiful! "Hello again, Sweet Holly."
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"YES!! California! You've been here only a little while, looking so good in your rosy shades of sunshine. I thought you might not like the change in climate, but you never missed a beat, blooming a time or two even during the drought. Good strong daylilies just seem to keep right on, no matter the changes in climate or weather. You go, girl! You just keep right on bloomin'!"
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And from Uncle Bill, a gorgeous rust that looks to be faded but isn't, poor photography; a sweet bicolor in its first bloom this year and a rose color bloom that was sprinkled in a light afternoon shower today.
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There is a special plant in my garden. Let me tell you the story about my monarda.
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Back home in Southeast KY there is a cemetery sitting high on the side of the mountain about a mile from where I grew up. It's an old cemetery and is the resting place of most all of my ancestors. One of the earliest graves is marked in the 1700s, about the time some of those ancestors made their way to the area. It's a large cemetery and there was a shelter at the back side of it. The shelter overlooked a tiny group of homes in the hollow below. It was there for protection from the weather because we gathered for important summer events up on that cemetery: Dinner on the Ground, Family Reunions, Big Singings, and sometimes Funerals, all Very Important Events and all Demanded Respect and Dignity.
I'd worn a scarf that day, seems like it was Big Singings Day, which meant it lasted from morning till dark because every musician in the mountains was invited and they all attended with their fiddles and their guitars. It had been drizzling rain, so I had a scarf - also known as a head kerchief - over my head. There was a very big crowd, mostly old folks and very few children.
I was sitting on the end of one of the log benches beneath the shelter, (a tin roof held up by log posts) listening to the music like most good little girls when I decided I was much too hot and removed my head kerchief, stuck it in my britches pocket. It was about the size of a large bandana and like most bandanas, it was red. Nobody was paying any attention to me, everybody was standing and singing and fanning themselves with the square cardboard fans that the funeral homes provided, the ones with flat wooden handles - so I looked over the edge of the shelter and down the hillside at the houses in the valley below. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining off the roofs of those little houses. Between the houses below and me, I spied something that was red. The butterflies were flitting and I could hear the drone of bees even with the music floating through the mountains. I needed that red thing, the one that the butterflies were circling.
I carefully slithered off my log bench and just as carefully made my way to the edge of the hill and down through slick rocks and over muddy narrow cliffs to the red thing. It was a flower, the prettiest little thing, with so many red spiky petals it looked like a fuzzy ball. I needed that flower. I was maybe about 8 and had been on a trek or two up the mountains in rain or shine gathering plants with Aunt Bett, so I knew what I was doing. I found a stick and began to dig the roots of that brilliantly red flower ball. It wasn't long before I had it, root and all and into my head kerchief it went all tied together, and back into the pocket of my britches. I started my upward climb.
Upward climbs are not all that easy but I was little and not heavy enough to dislodge rocks or roots that I held onto. Suddenly in the middle of my climb, I heard a screech echoing through my head, pounding in my ears:
"Stop, oh dear Lord, somebody help her! She fell off the mountain, somebody help her . . . help her . . . help her!"
I looked around to see who had fallen off the mountain and saw nothing worth hollering about, then looked up, and there was my mother - and all my family including Aunt Bett and Granny Ninna - looking down at me. I could see other faces too, mouths open wide and women with their fingers pointing my way. Men I didn't know, shaking their heads. The Big Singings had stopped and the mountain was dead silent but I could hear Mama's voice echoing around and bouncing off every single hilltop in the entire county.
'She fell of the mountain, fell off the mountain, off the mountain, mountain . . ."
And Aunt Bett right behind her, "Shhhhhhhhhh, Doris, you jus' leave her alone now, now, now, . . . she can clim' right back up, up, up . . . there's not a single mountain she cain't clim', cain't clim', clim' . . ."
I swallowed my pride when I caught sight of Aunt Bett's and then Ninna's blue eyes. Something about them glimmered and glistened on that hot summer day and I took a deep breath and kept climbing.
I think somebody had to carry my mother to the car, being that she could faint dead away at the drop of a hat, but I walked proudly with my head up holding on to Aunt Bett's and Ninna's hands and my dignity and respect - my red muddy kerchief holding my red bloom sticking out of my muddy pocket.
"Whatcha got in that head kerchief, Littl'un?" asked Ninna.
I let go of her hand and yanked the scarf and red flower out of my pocket -mud flying - and Aunt Bett said, 'You've got a treasure right there. That bee balm is jus' what we need for dryin' and making headache tea, and them fresh leaves are right good for spicin' up a baked hen or even some apple butter, too. You done real good, honey, ya done real good."
"But I want to plant it so it will grow and bloom, Aunt Bett, that's why I got the roots. I want them butterflies in my yard!" I had to hold my breath to keep the tears away.
And Ninna said, "I'll help you plant them roots, honey, be plenty enough for everything and everbody 'long 'bout this time next summer. Just you wait and see!"
And Aunt Bett said, "Don't you worry none, honey. Sometimes life is such a quand'ry!" And suddenly, even though I knew not a thing about a quand'ry, everything was all right again.
And now, 60+ years later, I still have bee balm, straight from the mountainside behind the shelter on the cemetery. I think I might have lost the head kerchief somewhere along the way, but my dignity has remained intact.
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Something has been eating my gorgeously huge coleus; not naming names or pointing fingers, but somebody took a giant bite out of the top leaf.
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Sometimes life is such a quand'ry.
Old songs, old colors, old daylilies, old gardens, but it doesn't matter - they are just as beautiful today as they were years ago. The song "I Can See Clearly Now" was recorded in 1972 by Johnny Nash and that's about the same time my gardens began here in Western Kentucky.
Seems as if nothing changes, seems as if nothing is new, but the truth is I am just as excited about every bloom as I was the ♫ First Time Ever I Saw its Face ♫ all those years ago (Roberta Flack ~ 1972, again). Trouble is, I've lost the tags, forgotten the names, or buried the markers beneath the soil; I'd have to search forever to find them. Doesn't matter, I love them anyway and the joy is in remembering who gave them to me. Those names will not be forgotten.
In today's blooms I found sweet memories. If you scroll over most of the images, you'll see a note or two.
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And so it goes today in western Kentucky ~ just Walkin' on Sunshine (1985)!
Words aren't always needed anyway.
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No time for weeding, no time for staging photos; the rains came tumbling down.
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~*~
It's late in the season and I thought it might not happen, but finally the Daylily Parade has started - almost as exciting as when the tomatoes ripen. That's the thing about gardens, we're always waiting for what happens tomorrow. Optimists, all of us.
Click on Sunshine's picture at the top; she has dimples in her cheeks when she laughs!
