Last fall we moved into an old farmhouse, which was to the delight of my soul. Any woman who is a woman immediately begins to lay out furniture in the rooms and decorate it in her mind with finishing touches that will create a comfy nest for her family.
I forged ahead in my nesting while the dried leaves piled up outside. I was always a bit distracted over thoughts of the buried treasure that would surface in the spring. I figured with an established yard like this, there were bound to be good old-fashioned flowers headed my way. I’d prepared though, just in case. I had dug up anything and everything that had any dirt left on the roots at the old place. I’ve thrown more dirt around from plants and flowers than 100 cats have kicked out of their litter boxes.
There’s a good reason why you should always carry a small shovel in your trunk. I’ve been known to stop along the road to dig something up, or ask for starts of plants from complete strangers. I have lilies, lilacs, berries, herbs and hydrangeas that have had the exact same address changes I’ve had. I can leave behind furniture, even memorabilia, but never would I leave my plants behind.
I wasn't disappointed when spring came. First, there were bountiful daffodils; then we moved on to shoots of poppies and irises and my absolute favorite, lily of the valley. I squealed like a little girl when I realized an entire row of peonies were vibrantly lined up along the field.
My transplants and starts have blended in nicely. Everyone is getting along well, and I must say, there is no better way to start my morning than to look out to witness life blooming in radiant colors.
When my grown children visit, they often comment about the vast array of vases in my house filled with various varieties of flowers. They seem to think I’ve got some sort of addiction going on.
Perhaps I should walk into a room with folding chairs arranged in a circle, close my eyes, take a deep breath and finally speak these words, “My name is Joy, and I have a slight addiction to flowers.” But I am not ashamed, and I believe I get it honestly.
My father had the same issue. So I’m certain it’s a genetic makeup that we have no control over. To my knowledge there is no known disorder. But given time, I’m sure someone will come up with one.
In the meantime, I’ll be enjoying the radiance of my yard and garden, feeling guilt-free while ever being prepared with a spade in the trunk.McClain writes from Greenwood.