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May Flowers It Is

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You know…the May flowers that come after the April showers…which we did have a few of. We do not even have to wait for the song from Rodgers & Hammerstein’s musical, “Carousel”.

The relevant lyrics go like this : “March went out like a lion, A-whippin’ up the water in the bay. Then April cried and stepped aside. And along came pretty little May”. There’s more to it but you get the gist. Right? Anyway, “pretty little May” is a-comin’ right up, one way or another and there are ball games, track meets, ceremonies & awards events, year-end items, things to clean out, things to plant, the big community-wide yard/garage sale…followed by the almost equally-large trash pick-up & disposal, the giant Rummage Sale at the Y (in case you didn’t get rid of all your family heirlooms in the community bargain bonanza). And all this is topped off by Graduation and Memorial Day. Whew!

Have to say that I have not exactly been holding up my end of the narrative, though I have made some efforts. The debris from last year’s growing season is still evident around the yards–front and back–with new green stuff starting to fight its way up to the sunshine. I spotted a new sorta skinny bush with white flowers that I do not recall having seen before; all of the standard Spring blossoms did really well so far but are starting to look like retirement is right over the hill. I have been meaning to get out and plant more things but so far, the Canna/Caladium combo is the only one actually in a genuine pot; Astilbes are awaiting installation–a 12-bulb assortment in shades of pink–ought to look good if I ever give them a chance to feel real dirt. The new little bulbs which I put in front of the Y are lagging–maybe half showing any signs of life–but it’s a hard life up there, trying to grow up and out of dirt that’s been beaten down since 1939 (and before that, since there was a pair of original school buildings there (1869, 1881 or thereabouts); kids are tough on plants, didja notice?

Hold onto your hats. Here we go! Bustin’ doesn’t begin to describe it.

Iva Walker