The Rose of Sharon stick my mother gave to me that she’d ordered from the Arbor Day Foundation has been sitting in a pot of dirt, diligently watered for more than a month now, and it has finally sprung a tiny green leaf, just above the dirt. Huzzah. So sometimes sticks do turn into trees, if you leave them in dirt long enough.
Heh. That is not at all true but it sounds like a good enough mantra to me.
My big ol’ dinnerplate dahlias have started to bud up. I cannot wait to see how big and what color they bloom. I’ve been googling “dinnerplate dahlia” and getting all these photographs of children’s snaggletoothed faces next to huge dahlia blooms. I guess it’s meant to illustrate that these magnificent bastards will dwarf the size of your five-year-old’s cranium, SO WATCH OUT BECAUSE THEY WILL ALSO STEAL YOUR WALLET.
There is something so obviously mathematical about a dahlia bloom. It’s like some kind of floral spirograph drawing. I am mesmerized by these things. I want to be the dahlia whisperer. So first I gotta figure out what’s nibbling on their leaves and then NUKE IT. Ditto what’s nibbling on my hosta, although I suspect slugs for that. (My beer trap efforts thus far have been disappointing. Efforts and results.)
I’m seeing no signs of blooming from my cannas, even though they have shot up in size during May. Mom says they may be a little shy this year since she had dug them up and stored them for a while before bringing them to plant here. I’m excited about seeing what they can do once they realize this is their permanent home and it’s okay to go ahead and let it all out. No judgment here, cannas. Do your thing. I know eventually you’re going to get sun drunk and fall over but you’re near enough to fences that I’m not afraid to just tether you to ’em if I have to.