In the decluttering of a Baby Boomer and Minimalist home when setting fire to the house and collecting insurance sounds freaking good. I’m there.
They were just odd looking sticks when I dug then up from the dark, rich soil of my late mother’s yard. Decades of dedicated composting and gardening created a miracle of sorts; where once iron-rich hard clay prevailed, loamy dark riches nurtured.
My mother had inherited my grandfather’s green thumb, sometimes to comically huge results. Potted plants became gigantic. A cluster of what she called Rose of Sharon shrubs became a veritable hedgerow.
The same twigs I dug up from that hedgerow grew into small trees, the same that produced this bloom.
I may have to dig one of the smallest to transplant into our Austin yard. It’s almost prairie out there, the top soil littered with shards of Austin shale. Not the rich loam of Mother’s yard yet, but with some composting it might be one day.