For the majority of my adult life (what it is) I have ascribed to the Steel Magnolia theory. Southern Women are supposed to wear funny looking hats and ugly clothes and grow vegetables in the dirt. Somewhere along the line flowers were added. I am just not mySELF if I’m not planting something in dirt in the springtime. It’s an event, believe me. I’ve planted flowers in pots, trays, containers, baskets and even boots and shoes. And even though I have a hard and fast “no annuals” rule, every year I HAVE to have Begonias. Scarlet begonias.
I can’t explain it, I don’t make up the rules that govern my brain. I just cannot pass them by. Each year I say I won’t do it, but that’s like telling the wind not to blow. It never fails. I come truckin home with all my goodies, and think that THIS year, I’ve done well, and suddenly, there they are…begonias.
I blame Jerry Garcia. Scarlet begonias was always one of my fave dead tunes, and the line “she had scarlet begonias tucked into her curls. I knew right away she was not like other girls” always made me smile. Being the off-track tree hugging granola eating hippie I was I guess I thought he meant me. Regardless (don’t you just hate it when people say irregardless when they mean regardless? I mean, what the hell does irregardless mean? It means WITH regard, right? a conundrum I think) I adore them, love their delicate petals and smiling little faces. I love their glossy silky leaves and the way they kinda puff up when they get going. They make me smile. AND you know what you are getting. Not like pumpkins.