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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2bmjpsn:
oh! oh! oh! so! okay. Fridays are flower harvest days, hell all morning because I get hives no matter how hard I cover up and try to stay in the shade and get sent inside to make lunch and whatever– I made the stupid mistake of hanging out laundry in the afternoon and I’m hive city today, it’s fuckin nasty, I want a refund on my whole self, this is some shit– but anyway.
anyway. Friday afternoons are making the market bouquets. And our mother comes up to help, with things she cuts from her garden– mostly, yarrow and echinacea and mint and wormwood and oregano flower spikes and such. (Here on the farm, we have just acres of zinnias and zinnias and zinnias, plus double cosmos and delphiniums and whatsit, sweet william, and mourningbride, and bachelor buttons, and snapdragons, a bunch of sunflowers in different sizes, plus fillers– statice, euphorbia, thai basil, lemon basil, explosion grass, amaranth, and so on.
Anyway. This time, Mom brought her best friend along, a woman who has a son about my baby sister’s age, and who has been in my life since I was quite small. She is an endless delight, has always had a dark and wicked sense of humor, really introduced me as more or less a fetus to the entire idea of deadpan/dry humor, and so on. She’s phenomenal.
And for a while, when she was a stay-at-home mom, she really studied flower arranging and the language of flowers and how to dry flowers and make dried arrangements and things. I made some crack about flower language and she said, “Oh, I can tell you a lot about that.”
I said please do so immediately. She laughed, and said, “I’ve forgotten most of the best of it, but I can tell you where I learned it.”
I am going to learn flower language so hard, and we are going to make Message Bouquets. Just you wait. Just you wait.
oh! oh! oh! so! okay. Fridays are flower harvest days, hell all morning because I get hives no matter how hard I cover up and try to stay in the shade and get sent inside to make lunch and whatever– I made the stupid mistake of hanging out laundry in the afternoon and I’m hive city today, it’s fuckin nasty, I want a refund on my whole self, this is some shit– but anyway.
anyway. Friday afternoons are making the market bouquets. And our mother comes up to help, with things she cuts from her garden– mostly, yarrow and echinacea and mint and wormwood and oregano flower spikes and such. (Here on the farm, we have just acres of zinnias and zinnias and zinnias, plus double cosmos and delphiniums and whatsit, sweet william, and mourningbride, and bachelor buttons, and snapdragons, a bunch of sunflowers in different sizes, plus fillers– statice, euphorbia, thai basil, lemon basil, explosion grass, amaranth, and so on.
Anyway. This time, Mom brought her best friend along, a woman who has a son about my baby sister’s age, and who has been in my life since I was quite small. She is an endless delight, has always had a dark and wicked sense of humor, really introduced me as more or less a fetus to the entire idea of deadpan/dry humor, and so on. She’s phenomenal.
And for a while, when she was a stay-at-home mom, she really studied flower arranging and the language of flowers and how to dry flowers and make dried arrangements and things. I made some crack about flower language and she said, “Oh, I can tell you a lot about that.”
I said please do so immediately. She laughed, and said, “I’ve forgotten most of the best of it, but I can tell you where I learned it.”
I am going to learn flower language so hard, and we are going to make Message Bouquets. Just you wait. Just you wait.
