R.S. Williams

All I want is to get the words right.

Tag: Gardening (page 2 of 5)

Wednesday Photo: 5/31/17

“Water Oak Leaves with Rain and Window”
LaGrange, Georgia – 1 May 2017

© R.S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Wednesday Photo: 5/24/17

“Old Rose in Bloom”
Heard County, Georgia – 13 May 2016

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 5/22/17

“Peony Globe”
LaGrange, Georgia – 10 May 2013

© R.S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Friday Photo: 5/5/17

“Piedmont Azalea with Night and Rain”
LaGrange, Georgia – 31 March 2017

© R.S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 5/1/17

“Gardenia Ghost”
LaGrange, Georgia – 6 June 2016

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 4/10/17

“Daffodils with Painted Concrete”
LaGrange, Georgia – 9 March 2014

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Friday Photo: 4/7/17

“Skeleton with Camellia”
LaGrange College Department of Art
LaGrange, Georgia – 24 March 2017

© R.S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Friday Photo: 3/31/17

“Daffodil Knocked Over by Storm, No. 1”
LaGrange, Georgia – 8 March 2012

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Peony Problems

Here in the Deep South, peonies are a hit-and-miss gardening affair. Sometimes, the weather and bugs and fungi and soil all manage to cooperate, and POOF! an early-blooming variety gives you two weeks of gloriously ruffled, heavily perfumed blossoms six to eight inches wide. (Unfortunately for us all, Southern weather gets too hot too soon for the late-blooming varieties.)

Seeing and smelling these flowers is the gateway drug to a serious gardening habit. You can’t help wanting moremoreMORE after an experience like that. Before you know it, you’ve got three, six, a dozen of them in the yard.

You tell yourself, “I don’t have a problem. I can quit any time I want.” This is while you’re sneaking plant catalogs into the employee restroom at work. You start showing up to important meetings with dirt still under your fingernails. You call in “sick” so you can stay home and dig several cubic yards of composted sheep manure into your garden beds.

It gets worse. You find yourself unable to sleep from your gardening high, so you order even more plants online at 3:00 in the morning. Your spouse gets suspicious. The cycle of lies begins: “No, honey, I don’t know who would order twenty rare peonies, ten Japanese maples, six Himalayan lilies, fifty ‘Pheasant’s Eye’ daffodils, twenty blackberry canes, and a Piedmont azalea all at the same time.” And the peonies started it all.

Most of the time, though, the weather and bugs and fungi and soil refuse to cooperate. You’re left with apricot-sized flower buds that turn to soggy brown mush just as they’re about to open. Then it’s all weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth while you walk around in sackcloth and ashes. Sad, but true: this has been my peony story for most of the ten years I’ve had them in my garden. It’s a rotten way to live.

The exceptionally cold winter of 2014 made this old-fashioned, finicky plant happy—which made me happy. 2015 brought a mild winter and brown ruffled mush. 2016’s joke of a winter will probably mean the same for this spring’s peonies. Guess I’ll hope for a repeat of three years ago, and then take whatever I can get.

Who am I kidding? I’ll be heartbroken without those six-inch, heaven-scented, crinoline-ruffled light pink pom-poms. But it’s no big deal. I’ll be okay, eventually. Besides, I can quit any time I want.

Photo: “Pink Peony Ruffles” (LaGrange, Georgia 8 May 2014)

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

Note: This post first appeared here in July 2014, here again in April 2016, and has since been revised.

 

Friday Photo: 3/17/17

“Autumn Leaves with Kiddie Pool”
Heard County, Georgia – 24 November 2016

© R.S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

The Other Vine That Ate the South

In the Deep South, spring smells like grape soda. Not name-brand grape soda, but the cheapest-of-all-cheapo-store-brands grape soda. Or perhaps it smells more like wonky year-old bubble gum, the kind that’s so powdery and bland nobody will even shoplift it off the dollar store clearance rack.

Whatever it smells like, that scent means wisteria, or, as I like to call it, the Other Vine That Ate the South. (The original Vine That Ate the South is kudzu, which blooms much later in the growing season, and is a topic for a different post or twelve.) In March and April, wisteria treats us to two or three weeks of glorious purple clouds in the trees. After that, it finishes leafing out to spend the rest of the season devouring everything in its path—fences, trees, houses, cars, pets.

It’s certainly breathtaking in the garden, but you have to tame it by pruning it hard every year.  Don’t slack off and skip a year. You will regret it. And don’t let its beauty fool you: wisteria sinensis is invasive. Unless someone keeps it in check, it takes over—a simple gardening fact.

But for whatever reason, the majority of people don’t control their wisteria. Or maybe it’s more like can’t control it. I’m not sure. When early spring passes, so do those amazing foot-long purple drupes. By the time summer gets here, its dark green leaves are so plentiful and thick that we can’t even see what it’s smothering 80 feet above the ground.

Other than adding stunning Pointillist color to the landscape and providing food for bees, wisteria doesn’t have much going for it. Oh, wait—it will also hide any place that you mean for people to forget. Don’t believe me? Just follow these two simple steps:

  1.   Plant wisteria.
  2.   Move.

Give it a few years, and voilà! Nobody will know the place ever existed.

People can say what they want about wisteria. I still look forward to its luxurious hues draped over roadside trees every spring. This is probably because I’m lucky enough not to have any on my property. As much as I love the Other Vine That Ate the South, it’s probably best that I leave it where I found it—far away from my own yard.

Photo: “Wisteria No. 471” (LaGrange, Georgia – 21 March 2012)

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

Originally published here on 8 October 2012, this post appears today with revisions. It was also one of my most popular posts in 2016.

 

Wednesday Photo: 3/8/17

“One Glowing Maple Leaf”
Heard County, Georgia – 12 November 2016

© R.S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 3/6/17

“Saucer Magnolias after the Storm”
LaGrange, Georgia – 16 March 2014

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

Wednesday Photo: 3/1/17

“Boots and Autumn Leaves”
Heard County, Georgia – 12 November 2016

© R.S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

The Little Peach Tree That Could

In the mid-1930s, my great-grandfather planted this dwarf peach tree in the side yard of his house in southwestern Heard County, Georgia. By the mid-1950s, when my mother was old enough to remember the family’s yearly trips down from Michigan, the tree bore heavy yields every summer.

Pap would slice up quart after quart of fresh peaches, from which he and Grandma Edith would make ice cream in an old crank-handle freezer. It was the finest she had ever tasted, Mom would say years later. When she first moved south in 1968, Mom lived with Pap and Grandma while she saved up for her own apartment in LaGrange. Entering its fourth decade, the little peach tree was still producing as many peaches as the three of them could eat (read: a lot).

In 1988, Mom moved back to Heard County and began fixing up the old home place. By that time, the tree was just about dead. Sap ran sticky amber-brown from the peach borer holes along its trunk. Ice storms had broken off about half its branches. The other half, fiercely proud and unwilling to admit defeat, struggled to stay even halfway upright.

The kind thing to do, Mom supposed, would be to cut it down. No sense in letting it suffer. It had served its purpose for many years. Now it was time to plant something new.

But the saw stayed in the shed.  Mom couldn’t stand to cut down the beleaguered little peach tree while it was still half-alive, or even a quarter alive. “When it’s finally dead, I’ll cut it,” she kept saying. “In the meantime, we’ll just mow around it.”

Which she did—very carefully, with a rickety push-mower and a pair of yard shears. Mom mulched it. She sprayed it for insects and fungus. She watered it during droughts, and pruned away the branches split by the weight of snow and ice. For a dying tree, this one sure was getting a lot of care.

Year after year, the little tree hung on. Every spring, the familiar pink blossoms appeared. By early summer, fuzzy green baby peaches the size of jelly beans dotted the branches. By July 4th, the baby peaches would lie rotting on the ground, felled by some fungus or insect predator. At least the fire ants and yellow jackets were eating well.

For almost 20 years, we had hoped for peaches. For almost 20 years, we had none. I began to accept that peaches, as much as I wanted them, were just not going to happen.

Fast forward to 2003: a warm spring day at the old home place. My mother and stepfather had almost finished rebuilding the long-collapsed front porch. Useless with a hammer but still wanting to be part of the action, I stood nearby.

“Uh, Mom?” I said. “It’s about your little tree.”

“I know, I know.” She mopped the sweat from her brow and grabbed another fistful of 16-penny nails. “I’m giving it one more chance. If it doesn’t make fruit this year, it’s coming down.”

So the spring turned into summer, and the blossoms turned into fuzzy green baby peaches. But this time, the baby peaches stayed on the tree. And grew. And grew. And ripened.

For the first time in nearly 40 years, we had peaches.

I felt badly for having hoped we could cut down the elderly peach tree. I had doubted it, yet it had come back—perhaps to prove us wrong, but more likely because that’s just what trees do. This lonely, gnarled little tree suddenly bore two bushels of peaches just because.

That summer, we had the best homemade peach ice cream and the best homemade peach cobbler I have ever tasted. Since then, the tree has managed to produce at least a few desserts’ worth of fruit every season. It has survived nearly a century of drought, disease, ice storms, and straight-line winds—and, one time, a sweet, hungry, clumsy 2,800-pound Black Angus bull. This beloved little tree refuses to quit.

What will this year bring? We don’t yet know. The peach tree probably doesn’t yet know, either. No matter what happens, though, I will always be grateful to it for showing me what endurance really means.

Photo: “Green Peach, Black Cat” (Heard County, Georgia – 27 May 2014)

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

Note: An earlier version of this piece appeared at my former blog, Forgotten Plants & Places, on 12 April 2012.

 

Wednesday Photo: 1/4/17

“Winter Carrots”
Heard County, Georgia – 30 December 2016

© R.S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 12/26/16

PinkPiedmontAzaleaWithRain_COPY_2015-04-10_12.59.07

“Pink Piedmont Azalea, with Rain”

LaGrange, Georgia – 10 April 2015

#HillsideMonday

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 12/19/16

lastoftheoldguard_copy_10-24-2014

“Last of the Old Guard”

LaGrange, Georgia – 24 October 2014

#HillsideMonday

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Wednesday Photo: 12/14/16

Primitive Citrus #3 (Heard County, Georgia - 31 March 2013)

“Primitive Citrus #3”
Heard County, Georgia – 31 March 2013

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 12/12/16

irisleaveslateautumndrought_copy_11-11-2016

“Iris Leaves with Late Autumn Drought”

LaGrange, Georgia – 11 November 2016

#HillsideMonday

© R.S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Friday Photo: 12/9/16

mapleleafandoldtabletop_copy_2015-08-23

“Maple Leaf and Old Tabletop”
LaGrange, Georgia – 23 August 2015

© R.S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 12/5/16

virginiacreeperwithsidingandlateautumndrought_copy

“Virginia Creeper with Late Autumn Drought”
#HillsideMonday
LaGrange, Georgia – 11 November 2016

© R.S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Wednesday Photo: 11/9/16

autumnleavesno1_copy_2015-10-10

“Autumn Leaves, No. 1”
Heard County, Georgia – 10 October 2015

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Fresh Alabama

FreshAlabama_COPY_2014-09-19

Wedowee, Alabama – 19 September 2014

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 9/19/16

MagnoliaLeafWithRainwater_COPY_2013-05-05

“Magnolia Leaf with Rain Water”
LaGrange, Georgia – 5 May 2013

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 9/12/16

SilkTreeAndSkyLincolnStreet_COPY_2014-07-05

“Silk Tree and Sky, Lincoln Street”
LaGrange, Georgia – 5 July 2014

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Dr. Parker’s Gardenias

GardeniaGhostNo2_COPY_2016-06-06

When I was a baby, my parents rented a tiny house trailer in Randolph County, Alabama. Their elderly landlord was a retired country doctor. Dr. James Parker* and his wife, Opal*, passed their days tending to their legendary vegetable and flower gardens. Born in the late 1890s, they also shared with my mother many stories from their childhoods.

One thick summer evening, sitting on the Parkers’ front porch, Mom complimented Miss Opal on the waxy, heaven-scented white flowers blooming at the very edge of her yard. “Your gardenias are amazing. Would it be all right if I cut a few to put in a vase?”

“Help yourself,” Miss Opal said. “I can’t stand gardenias. James loves them. I told him if he just had to have them, he needed to plant them as far away from the house as he could.”

This was a new one for Mom. “How come you don’t like gardenias?”

“They remind me of my Uncle Bert*.” Miss Opal looked across the lawn at the hundred-foot row of waist-high, glossy-green-leaved shrubs that separated her yard from the overgrown pasture next door. She sighed, and turned back to Mom.

“Uncle Bert was Mama’s youngest brother. He left for Oklahoma when I was a child—thought he’d try farming out there, where it’s flat and you can see for miles and miles. One day, he was fixing a barbwire fence when a bad storm came up. He didn’t worry, though. The storm was still a good way off. He’d figured he’d patch that fence, get on his mule, and beat the rain back to the house.” She paused. “He didn’t count on the lightning.”

“The lightning?”

Miss Opal nodded sadly. “Lightning struck about a mile away. The charge traveled all the way up the fence to where Uncle Bert had his hands on it. Killed both him and the mule.”

“My God!”

“Even worse,” Miss Opal continued, “was that he had told his wife he wanted to be buried back home, in Alabama. And he died in late June.”

She closed her eyes. “The funeral was open-casket, even though we could barely recognize him. There was this big old burned streak down his face, down into his shirt collar and, I reckon, the whole length of his body.” Miss Opal shuddered. “Took the train eight days to get here from Oklahoma City. His wife didn’t have the money to have him embalmed.  With all that time passing, and the summer heat, by the day of the funeral—Lord, have mercy. They had that church full of gardenias to cover up the smell. It didn’t work.”

“To this day, every time I catch even a little whiff of the blasted things, all I can smell is sickly sweetness—just overpowering summer and perfume and death. I see Uncle Bert again, all burned and purplish-black there in the casket. And I just about faint.” Miss Opal pointed toward the edge of the yard. “And that’s why I made James plant his gardenias way out there.”

*Note: All names have been changed. 

Photo: “Gardenia Ghost No. 2” (LaGrange, Georgia – 6 June 2016)

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Wednesday Photo: 8/31/16

PinkPetalsGreenMarble_COPY_2015-03-21

“Pink Petals, Green Marble”
Birmingham, Alabama – 21 March 2015

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Gardenia Ghost

GardeniaGhost_COPY_2016-06-06

LaGrange, Georgia – 6 June 2016

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 8/8/16

BlackberryChair_COPY_May2014

“Blackberry Chair”
LaGrange, Georgia – 13 May 2014

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Wednesday Photo: 8/3/16

RipeningPeachEarlySummer_COPY_2016-06-09

“Ripening Peach, Early Summer”
Heard County, Georgia – 9 June 2016

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Cherry Limb, Thanksgiving Day

CherryLimbThanksgivingDay_COPY_2015-11-26

Heard County, Georgia – 26 November 2015

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 6/27/16

SilkTreeShadowWithVinylSiding_COPY_2016-06-06

“Silk Tree Shadow with Vinyl Siding”
LaGrange, Georgia – 6 June 2016

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 6/13/16

DeterminedDandelion_COPY_2016-03-22

“Determined Dandelion”
LaGrange, Georgia – 22 March 2016

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Old Rose in Bloom

OldRoseInBloom_COPY_2016-05-13

Heard County, Georgia – 13 May 2016

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Trumpet Vine with Mural

TrumpetVineAndMural_COPY_2014-08-19

LaGrange, Georgia – 19 August 2014

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Pink Dogwood with Rain

PinkDogwoodWithRain_COPY_2015-04-06_18.30.03

LaGrange, Georgia – 6 April 2015

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Peony Problems

PinkPeonyRuffles_COPY_2014-05-08-19.49

Here in the Deep South, peonies are a hit-and-miss gardening affair. Sometimes, the weather and bugs and fungi and soil all manage to cooperate, and POOF! an early-blooming variety gives you two weeks of gloriously ruffled, heavily perfumed blossoms six to eight inches wide. (Unfortunately for us all, Southern weather gets too hot too soon for the late-blooming varieties.)

Seeing and smelling these flowers is the gateway drug to a serious gardening habit. You can’t help wanting moremoreMORE after an experience like that. Before you know it, you’ve got three, six, a dozen of them in the yard.

You tell yourself, “I don’t have a problem. I can quit any time I want.” This is while you’re sneaking plant catalogs into the employee restroom at work. You start showing up to important meetings with dirt still under your fingernails. You call in “sick” so you can stay home and dig several cubic yards of composted sheep manure into your garden beds. And the peonies started it all.

It gets worse. You find yourself unable to sleep from your gardening high, so you order even more plants online at 3:00 in the morning. Your spouse gets suspicious. The cycle of lies begins: “No, honey, I don’t know who would order twenty rare peonies, ten Japanese maples, six Himalayan lilies, fifty ‘Pheasant’s Eye’ daffodils, twenty blackberry canes, and a Piedmont azalea all at the same time.”

Most of the time, though, the weather and bugs and fungi and soil refuse to cooperate. You’re left with apricot-sized flower buds that turn to soggy brown mush just as they’re about to open. Then it’s all weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth while you walk around in sackcloth and ashes. Sad, but true: this has been my peony story for most of the ten years I’ve had them in my garden. It’s a rotten way to live.

However, the exceptionally cold winter of 2014 made this old-fashioned, finicky plant happy—which made me happy. 2015 brought a mild winter and brown ruffled mush. Who knows what our extra-mild 2016 winter will bring, peony-wise. Guess I’ll just hope for a repeat of two years ago, and then take whatever I can get.

Who am I kidding? I’ll be heartbroken without those six-inch, heaven-scented, crinoline-ruffled light pink pom-poms. But it’s no big deal. I’ll be okay, eventually.

Besides, I can quit any time I want.

Photo: “Pink Peony Ruffles” (LaGrange, Georgia 8 May 2014)

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

Note: This post first appeared here in July 2014, and has since been revised.

 

Wednesday Photo: 4/6/16

CherryBlossomGlory_03-09-2015_COPY2

“Cherry Blossom Glory”
University of West Georgia
Carrollton, Georgia – 9 March 2015

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

The Other Vine That Ate the South

Wisteria #471, LaGrange, Georgia (21 March 2012)

In the Deep South, spring smells like grape soda. Not name-brand grape soda, but the cheapest-of-all-cheapo-store-brands grape soda. Or perhaps it smells more like wonky year-old bubble gum, the kind that’s so powdery and bland nobody will even shoplift it off the dollar store clearance rack.

Whatever it smells like, that scent means wisteria, or, as I like to call it, the Other Vine That Ate the South. (The original Vine That Ate the South is kudzu, of course, which is a topic for a different post or twelve.) In March and April, wisteria treats us to two or three weeks of glorious purple clouds in the trees. After that, it finishes leafing out to spend the rest of the season devouring everything in its path—fences, trees, houses, cars, pets.

It’s certainly breathtaking in the garden, but you have to tame it by pruning it hard every year.  Don’t slack off and skip a year, because you’ll regret it. And don’t let its beauty fool you: wisteria sinensis is invasive. Unless someone keeps it in check, it takes over—a simple gardening fact.

But for whatever reason, the majority of people don’t control their wisteria. Or maybe it’s more like can’t control it. I’m not sure. When early spring passes, so do those amazing foot-long purple drupes. By the time summer gets here, its dark green leaves are so plentiful and thick that we can’t even see what it’s smothering 80 feet above the ground.

Other than adding stunning Pointillist color to the landscape and providing food for bees, wisteria doesn’t have much going for it. Oh, wait—it will also hide any place that you mean for people to forget. Don’t believe me? Just follow these two simple steps:

  1.   Plant wisteria.
  2.   Move.

Give it a few years, and voilà! Nobody will know the place ever existed.

People can say what they want about wisteria. I still look forward to its luxurious hues draped over roadside trees every spring. This is probably because I’m lucky enough not to have any on my property. As much as I love the Other Vine That Ate the South, it’s probably best that I leave it where I found it—far away from my own yard.

Photo: “Wisteria No. 471” (LaGrange, Georgia – 21 March 2012)

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

Originally published here on 8 October 2012, this post appears today with revisions.

 

Wednesday Photo: 3/30/16

LifeInTheRuins_COPY_2014-08-09

“Life in the Ruins”
Leadville, Colorado – 9 August 2014

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Luck of the Groundcovers

Clover and Other Common Groundcovers, LaGrange, Georgia (8 March 2012)

LaGrange, Georgia – 8 March 2012

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Wednesday Photo: 3/16/16

Daffodil Knocked over by Storm #1, LaGrange, Georgia (8 March 2012)

“Daffodil Knocked Over by Storm, No. 1”
LaGrange, Georgia – 8 March 2012

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Bars, Vines, Glass, Time

BarsVinesGlassTime_COPY_2014-07-22-16

Franklin, Georgia – 22 July 2014

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Wednesday Photo: 3/2/16

CeriseYellowDaylily_COPY02_2014-06-17

“Cerise-Yellow Daylily”
Heard County, Georgia – 17 June 2014

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

The Daffodils That Always Mean “Home”

DaffNippedByFrost_Feb2012_COPY

Living in a small town often means commuting a long distance to work somewhere else. Before I began working from home, I drove about 90 miles round-trip to my university teaching job. While the commute itself sometimes bored me, the scenery on U.S. Highway 27 between LaGrange and Carrollton never, ever did.

So it’s March now—the month that, in the Deep South, gives us an ice storm one day and tornadoes the next. This year has brought out the daffodils a little early. I delight in watching them pop up along U.S. 27’s shoulders.

When you see daffodils, you can safely assume that someone put them there. Unlike seed plants, daffodils and other bulbs have to be dug up and replanted. In order to get them from where they are to where they’re going to be, someone has to move them at the right time of year (late spring, after blooms and foliage have died back), transport them to a suitable location, and plant them.

Most of the daffodils we see along the roadside make their homes in someone’s yard. Sometimes they’re in neat flower beds. Sometimes, as is the case with my own yard, they’re randomly planted in a sunny patch of lawn to surprise everyone, year after year, with unexpected yellows and creams in a sea of brittle brown grass.

But what about those planted in or near a roadside ditch—without a house nearby?

Just because you don’t see a house doesn’t mean one hasn’t ever been there. Daffodils stay underground most of the year. Once they’ve finished blooming, their leaves die back and don’t reappear for another year. So old houses get demolished, their sites fading into and gradually out of memory—yet the bulbs embedded around them come back. They come back every spring thereafter, house or no house.

Plant ghosts, I call them. They don’t know the house and the people are gone. They come back because this is their home. In every sense of the word, they are rooted here.

The daffodils pictured above are very simple, single-cup daffodils, an old variety we often see around old houses. They’re about 12” tall at most, and amazingly hardy. Judging from what’s left of the house, and from the size of the flower clumps, these daffs have been here for about 50 years.

Behind the thick, overgrown privet hedge, nearly 20 feet down the bank from the southbound lanes of U.S. 27 in Carroll County, appears the faint outline of a house—or what used to be a house, anyway. Out in front: these happy yellow bells.

I wonder why the last residents left. I wonder if they left in a hurry. I wonder who decided to let a once-sturdy farmhouse simply fold itself back into the earth.

I wonder if, on leaving, they took one long, last look toward the flower bed. I wonder if they wept for the flowers waiting beneath its surface, for the daffodils that always mean “home.”

Photo: “Daff Nipped by Frost” (Carroll County, Georgia – February 2012)

NOTE: Earlier versions of this post appeared here on 2 March 2015, and at Forgotten Plants & Places on 25 February 2012.

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Sycamore, Early Winter

SycamoreEarlyWinter_COPY_2015-12-06_17

Heard County, Georgia – 6 December 2015

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Hillside Monday: 2/15/16

IDontKnowWhatHappenedHereButIKindaLikeIt_COPY

“I Don’t Know What Happened Here, but I Kinda Like It”
LaGrange, Georgia – 28 February 2015

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Wednesday Photo: 2/10/16

MuscariWithBee_DenverCO_06March2010

“Muscari (Grape Hyacinth) with Bee”
Denver, Colorado – 6 March 2010

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

Plums with Twine and Table

PlumsWithTwineAndTable_COPY_02Jun2010

Heard County, Georgia – 2 June 2010

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)

 

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