I've also talked a lot to the garden. The red roses at the back have black spot and are suffering. I made a big fuss about them. The gardenia W*yson bought me is finicky and needs a lot of cheery conversation. The clematis, which has been feeble every year, this year is lush and beautifully purple, so it gets a LOT of praise, in case it decides to change its mind and droop again.
I'm sitting on the deck right now at 6.45 p.m., taking a break to drink a glass of wine, smell the scented air, look at the fresh burst of tiger lilies, the fat white heads of the ... of the ... I know the name but of course, being 59 with a head stuffed with names, it has vanished. It happens all the time now - something I have known for years, gone, to surface at 3 a.m. Drives me crazy! I am staring now at the masses of big puffy white blooms - you know the name, don't you? Send me some telepathy, or I'll go nuts.
A moving moment this morning - on my Sunday morning tiny jogette through the neighbourhood, I went to the Necropolis, the Cabbagetown cemetery, one of my favourite places. It's full of hundred-year old tombstones engraved with marvellous names - Elwood, Gertrude, Frank, Minnie. What happened to those names? As I walked around, I heard laughter, and there on the path was a young mother, sitting on the ground, with her little one in a stroller. They were playing together, laughing in a patch of sunlight, surrounded by gravestones. Such a sight and sound of life, in a quiet place honouring something else.
Begonia. Lobelia. I think it starts with c. No, maybe an h. I'm going to call my mother; she'll know.
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