July 30, 2022

Good morning!

It’s Saturday, and I wanted you to meet my hollyhocks before they finished hollyhocking. They are my pride and joy. I could lie and say, “Oh, those old things! I didn’t even plant them, they just keep re-seeding!” But they’ve taken work. Even now, I add a few new plants every year as an insurance policy against their fickle biennial bloom schedule.

The hollyhocks stand out front where they can wave and twirl their ruffled skirts at the passing traffic, which includes both cars and bees. The cars don’t stop, but the bees do. They adore lolling around in the hollyhocks, covering themselves with as much pollen as their pollen baskets (yes, really) will hold—which is apparently up to 35% of their body weight. Which seems like quite a lot of pollen.

But now, like seaside umbrellas at the end of the season, their petals have begun to collapse into themselves. Even here, they retain their charm. Their buoyant ruffles become sophisticated, form-fitting swirls of fabric.

Then it’s a matter of waiting for the seed heads to mature, at which point I’ll pluck each one and scatter its contents into the ground beneath. The same ground where that interloping purple petunia showed up this year. They tolerate the newcomer, who gazes up at them in admiration.

“Beauty is the only thing that time cannot harm. Philosophies fall away like sand, creeds follow one another, but what is beautiful is a joy for all seasons, a possession for all eternity.”

—Oscar Wilde

In the meantime…

“I am very busy picking up stems and stamens as the hollyhocks leave their clothes around.”

— Emily Dickinson

Onwards we go,

Clara