Good morning!
It’s Friday, and the heat has subsided just enough for me to show you this, perhaps the last peony of the season—and by far the most special.
It belongs to a mythical plant that my great grandfather put in this spot sometime in the 1940s. Nobody remembers seeing it bloom, not I, not my brothers, not even my mother. For most of my life, this peony’s existence has been purely mythical.
A few years ago, I finally discovered two brave leaves poking out of the rugosas. Did I leap into action and honor my great grandfather’s legacy by clearing out the rugosas, putting a thick layer of compost around the peony and giving it water and reading it bedtime stories? No, I did not. Its battle seemed too insurmountable, its oomph all oomphed out. I’d look for it every spring, but usually just to make sure I wasn’t stepping on it.
So you can imagine my surprise when, on Sunday, I spotted something very large and very pink and very spectacular where I’d never seen anything that large or that pink or that spectacular before.
Behold, a gift from my great grandfather to us all.
“waiting dulls the senses
and when you are no longer waiting,
something wakes up.”—Naomi Shihab Nye
Respiteers, won’t you join me in our oh-so-comfortable imaginary pavilion at 2pm Eastern for our gathering? I can’t wait to hear about your week. As always, check your inbox right before the hour.
Onwards we go,
Clara
Wow, amazing! We've had a peony we transplanted a few years ago and keep watching. This proves we should keep watching for a while longer yet.
Oooooh! Love this story!!!