Morning Glory Fountain
In what turned out to be my darkest hour, 1981, I glimpsed, in the Newark Street Community Garden in northwest D.C. a morning glory fountain. It was just morning glories planted in a wire tomato cone. It was jammed and exploding with blooms, and the tips of the winding vines spread from the small end at the top of the cone out into the air, looking for something to climb, their tips turned up like apsara dancers' hyperextended fingers.
I've never forgotten it.
This year, thirty-one years later, and 1,647 miles away, I finally got the sun and space to plant one. And a moon flower one too.
It's hard to believe I made it.
Here is the rosa glauca, covered with blooms. Last year it had one, and I sent a picture of it, the first flower I ever grew, to the Old Husband. I never heard from him again, until I dreamed that he had died, which he had. Three days after his death I dreamed he came and said, I'm going home. This one is for him, with love and thanks to the wonderful, gay, granny chic, Dixie Boho gardener, Dean Riddle, who recommends it.
I've never forgotten it.
This year, thirty-one years later, and 1,647 miles away, I finally got the sun and space to plant one. And a moon flower one too.
It's hard to believe I made it.
Here is the rosa glauca, covered with blooms. Last year it had one, and I sent a picture of it, the first flower I ever grew, to the Old Husband. I never heard from him again, until I dreamed that he had died, which he had. Three days after his death I dreamed he came and said, I'm going home. This one is for him, with love and thanks to the wonderful, gay, granny chic, Dixie Boho gardener, Dean Riddle, who recommends it.