I have to brag about this.
Last weekend I was a bridesmaid in Kristin and Lonnie’s wedding, where I accidentally ruined every picture by
making having a stupid face. Anyway, Kristin sent me home with my bouquet and a piece of hers. Sadly, the few hours the bouquets spent in the car in the scorching 100+-degree heat when I ducked in to Opry Mills pretty much sapped them of their ability to stand up and be pretty and quasi-alive in a vase. But they did start to have that delicious dried-flower smell on the drive home. I don’t know if Kristin picked the variety of flowers she picked with their decay qualities in mind, but I would not be surprised if she did; she is very clever.
Anyway, today I was trying to figure out what to do with my lovely, dying bouquets, and I couldn’t stop smelling them. But I had to dismantle them because my fat orange cat was making insane noises trying to get at them once he realized what they were. He is plant crazed. So I got one of my huge wine glasses (a gift from Ashley K many years ago) and set about plucking out bits of the bouquet and arranging the pieces in the glass.
There was enough foliage to do two but I knew that would be tempting cat fate, so I just did the one. I think it turned out really nicely.
… and I laid on the pavement and took pictures of a bouquet of flowers I got for Valentine’s Day. As you do.
… but in reality it’s always a welcome addition to the scorched, dead-earth-looking yard in late summer/early fall.
This sweet candy lily and its sibling nearby don’t seem to be as put out by the relentless heat as much of the other stuff gasping blooms out there right now. This is another installment of the continuing Transplanted From @saraclark’s Garden Series.
Everyone say hello to the coneflowers that made it all the way from Nashville to Memphis via @saraclark. They are bustin’ out!
Bam! Zinnias. And they are standing up for once!
Yeah, me too. It seems that my desire to go outside and dig in the dirt has sort of been swept away along with my ability to write and take pictures. The good news is that I think I did a sufficient amount of prep work in the fall to save me some major spring ass pains. My mulched beds are not completely overrun with weeds (aside from the front bed’s four dozen or so volunteer oak trees I had to yank up the other day) and I planted enough in November that I should be able to just maintain this spring and summer.
I’ve not been crazy about going outside too much because of my perennial mosquito problem. I don’t want to get bitten and I don’t want to avoid getting bitten by dousing myself in chemicals. (Here is the part where sweet people want to chime in with natural mosquito remedies, which I appreciate so much, but I have tried them all and been munched on throughout my life anyway. I can drape myself in dryer sheets, clip an Off! fan on my hip, slather Skin So Soft on my skin and spray Deep Woods Off! all over myself to sit on the porch inside a ring of citronella candles with marigold plants flanking me, and still get eaten alive. I’m not exaggerating.) Oddly enough — and I swear if my saying this jinxes it, I will be forever pissed — the time I have spent outside this spring has been mercifully mosquito-free, despite my having seen plenty of those buggers swirling around in the breeze. It’s nearly June and I have had one bite this year. One! Usually I’d have hit thirty by now. I can’t help but wonder if my bodily chemistry has changed so drastically that they aren’t craving my sweet nectar right now. I would find that odd because my blood volume has doubled, so you’d think I would be the equivalent of a big meaty Ryan’s for those bastards. But, well, not yet.
Anyway. My tiny oak leaf hydrangea is blooming, as are the marigolds and the purple coneflowers (thanks, saraclark!) and the other big hydrangea I thought I killed last year in my attempt to eradicate the evil trumpet vine. My irises never did bloom. I find that extremely odd, but then again, my buttercups never bloomed either. Lack of sun? I guess it’s time to play musical flowerbeds and move some bulbs around.
The lilies are getting plumped up, which is really exciting because I forgot which ones are planted where, so the colors will be a surprise again. The tons and tons of of allium I planted still haven’t bloomed either. But the gerbera daisies I potted last year self-seeded and came back, although the orange one’s blooms are puny.
My mums are blooming already, too. The ones planted in the bed and the ones in pots. I haven’t done anything to any of them. Never pinched blooms, but they are bushing out really nicely. I guess I need to get to pinching, though, if I want them to bloom through fall. Am I the only person who feels guilty pinching blooms? It seems mean.
Dwarf coreopsis, the flower with the name that sounds a lot like something that would be written on a little person’s autopsy report.
Also opening up:
Dianthus, rose, rose.
My grandmother potted this for me last year and called it a bleeding heart. But it looks just like a columbine bloom, only it’s clumpy and grows much taller than my purple columbines. And the internet returns something much different when I search for “bleeding heart.” So I’m going to call it a columbine, at the risk of inciting grandmotherly rage.
What else is out there?
Snapdragons, I forget what it’s called.
Creeping phlox, little moonflower weed thingies (they are on their last legs)
azaleas (I’ve got several varieties in pink, hot pink, and white), columbine
tulip (last of the petals just fell), armeria, vinca
verbena, purity candytuft