(Guest Blogger: Monica of Prince Snow Farm)
It’s Ok, give me the label: Hopeless Dreamer.
How else can I explain the result of my lifelong love
affair with Mother Nature?
When I was 8 or 9 I had my first flower garden…velvety coleus up to my knees, sticky-blossomed day-glo petunias,
wild violets that spread like Harold’s Crayola
across the sky…I gently plucked tender blossoms for sweet little arrangements…delivering them
to the dinner table for all 7 of us to enjoy.
Dad showed us how to pinch beans from the plants and pick a “just right” tomato.
My love for flora hasn’t hesitated…not for an instant. It never ceased during the waddling, fat ankle stage of pregnancy, nor during the
endless hours of work on our 1830’s antique cape…not even during 22 years of teaching math and science. It has been a constant in a life that sometime contains more variables than I care to acknowledge.
In recent years, my fondness for gardening has become
something more. You see, I started to “play”…and I discovered something far more rewarding than swinging til my toes touched the branches of the maple…or pogo sticking off the back steps. (although those are close 2nd and 3rds), I felt a passion. I felt a connection.
I felt a sense of belonging.
It all started the day I brought an armful of zinnias inside on the sleeping porch. I placed them on a vintage cranberry crate, a gift from our neighbor. The rustic touch of the wood against the vibrant blossoms was like an explosion in my brain. I immediately grabbed a spool of vintage orange satin ribbon from my Etsy supplies and wrapped it around the stems.
I was hooked.
Next I moved to hydrangeas…every shade I could get my hands on. I lined them up in a row, enjoying the contrasts of the colors, the shapes of the different varieties, the stages of the blooms.
I love to load up the laundry basket with props and drag it down to the old picnic table beyond the raised bed garden, just before the woods. The lighting is perfect here. Dappled
and pure. I listen to the catbird that follows me from the house, consenting his approval with a loud baby like cry. I spread out my vintage quilts and grandma’s china.
I gather herbs and blossoms….harvest lavender and arrange little vignettes. Photographing here is pure pleasure. It’s more satisfying than anything I have ever dared to accomplish.
And the rest is history I guess you could say.
Yes, I am still a teacher, a mom, a wife.
but NOTHING is more rewarding than
watching your daughter’s eyes light up as she
selects blossoms for rustic farm arrangements, (to sell at her little farm stand.) Or listening to my son’s laughter as we arrange a zucchini and a few odd peppers into funny faces on the kitchen counter.
You see….this is REAL.
This you can ALWAYS take with you.
This will not fade or falter.
It ‘s dreamy.
Monica O’Malley Tavares