I was walking out the front door and noticed the Mr. Lincoln rose was particularly beautiful. I used my cell phone to snap a pic. The water droplets didn’t come through as crisp as I would have liked…you can see the sheen of the droplets. This rose is a fragrant reminder of my mom’s love of roses. First generated in 1964, the rose was transplanted from my folk’s house after their deaths and the sale of their home.
The recreation department in our town held their Third Annual PUMPKIN STROLL
The children came in beautiful costumes
They brought Carved Pumpkins for the contest
Vendors set up tables with items for sale but they all had candy to pass out to the children who also were Trick or Treating(dress rehearsal for the 31st)
We had a table with lots of candy as well and our raffle items for the Garden Club fundraising effort.
Have you heard of the Big Box store LOWES?
Let me tell you a little about our local store here in our town.
They try to help the communities they build their stores in.
They give grants to the local clubs and schools for building supplies and plants.
Well in this case a past Garden Club president applied for and won a grant to make a few…
I noticed these roses, open and beaded up with water droplets. I recently shot these roses and posted ‘Peeking Beauty’ last week or so. Portland had not had any measurable rain in 50+ days. In the heat, I had been careful to not water over the foliage or buds. I found the beads of water remarkable after last nights rainfall. I just don’t think I have ever seen so many beads of water collected together as here. So, I snapped the shot while walking from the front door to the car.
Neglect in Rispetto
It has been so long since I tended my yard
because life’s demands have drawn me away.
I love the nurturing and find it not hard,
but the toil now is elsewhere that does outweigh.
Time is fleeting, the demands so high,
that I can barely keep up without a tired sigh.
But, I am told, time is on my side,
if I only keep the end in sight and abide.
It has been too long.
I have hurt so bad.
She is now beginning to look as if she belongs
Though the Turquoise being gone still makes me so sad.
She needed new paint
Her wooden sides were so dry
So many see me as an angel but truly I am no saint
I allowed my home to go unloved for so long all I did was stay at home a cry
Well the time has come for me to see how blessed I am
The men in my life already had given her a new roof a few years back
I took care of the flooding , by destroying that dam
So now with four gallons already on, I have begun to pick up the slack
Yes Oxford Brown is very Dark
I have plans to make that a stunning feature
With hundreds of blossoms next year it will not look so stark
You know I will have many a creature
I will save lots of money by starting seeds, I will save pennies on the dollar
I can hardly wait to design the new beds
Tall flowers in the back have to be outrageous in color
You will hardly notice the backdrop, flowers are all you will see instead
What are your favorite flowers, maybe I can grow them here
Up against this fresh new paint
Early morning in the back yard. Birds chirping. Cat in the window looking out, tail swishing. A bed of roses neglected this Summer. My Mom’s roses transplanted here after her death. Old roses. Sentimental roses. I see one beautiful rose in magnificent repose. The others, past their prime, chastise me. ‘Where have you been?’
It’s been ninety years since a garden was tended in this place. Apple trees lined a rutted dirt road that lead to the grainery and barn. Grandmother toiled there many days. On Friday, she burned the trash within the confines of a rusty old barrel. The other items went into a pit at the edge of her garden, broken plates and cups, empty jars, tin cans. She would toss a few shovels full of dirt onto the latest additions to the pit and forget about them. Ninety years…there is little left to recognize in this field.
Now, her great-grandson is digging a hole for a new apple tree. The shovel hits chunks of coal and shards of broken ceramics, white and cornflower blue. Another shovel of dirt produces tin cans, a soldier molded from melted lead, old glass jars with raised lettering. What was this place?
His mother kneels beside the mound that holds the memories of her grandmothers strong back and iron will. She thinks of her uncle as child, molding his lead soldiers. She sees her grandmothers soiled dress and ragged apron blowing around with each swing of the shovel.
“What is it, mom?” The young man asks when he sees the tear on his mother’s cheek.
The mother rises, wiping her hands on blue jeans with tattered knees. “Just thinking,” she sighs, “Of how life changes, but stays the same.”
A new apple tree is gently placed in the ground. The shards of yesterday rest once more beneath the ground. They walk together to the old house where their family has lived for five generations, past the old pantry on the porch and the oil lamp from the coal mine.
Somehow, for a moment, the past and present meld together. We are all one, one breath, one tear.
Summer is in her final throes
This plant has once again doubled in size, what shall I do?
It is amazing how she grows
Each spring I place it outside where it loves the rain and sun too.
I will now need to think on how to split it up.
It should make a few beautiful hanging plants.
I will try to save some of its babies in a cup.
Now to remember to check it for ANTS!