Baby’s breath, bougainvillea, violet, verbena or the grand dame of them all – roses. I love flowers and they always make me smile.
Wildflowers strewn recklessly across the fields or well-tended gardens flanking the park path. The location or the germination of the plant doesn’t matter to me. Flowers brighten every landscape.
I think my affection for flowers links back to my maternal grandmother. When Grandma B first moved into “town” from the farm, she brought with her roots to a big-balled, great-smelling beast of a flower and planted them along the side of her lawn.
When you’re from Missouri, you call these fist-sized petals of sweetness PEE-O-KNEES. If you don’t have a drawl, you can just say peony. Either way, Grandma kept her bright pink and white blossoms growing for more than 45 years. She tended them lovingly but, primarily, she just let God/Nature do what it naturally does to cultivate life.
And, without sounding overly romantic, I believe that’s why flowers mean so much to me. They grow in seasons of happiness and in times of sorrow. They peak beautifully and then die quietly. Some return year after year and some smile at you for just a brief time. They are rebirth and peaceful death simultaneously. And they expand from some nondescript seeds or ugly bulbs into some of the most beautiful shapes and colors we will ever see.
Next time you see a daffodil or even a dandelion, remember to smile.
