|Apparently some bees thought this patch needed some plain green mixed in|
My grandmother used to "let" me help her weed her garden. She made it look like something a seven year old should want to partake in. Gloves and tools? Sign me up! I know she often regretted her decision because I did not perform the task up to her standards. Was this story going somewhere? Why yes, I believe it was. As I inhaled the irises, I was reminded of the time my grandmother asked me what my favorite smelling flower was, as we were out working in the soil. Without needing time to think, I told her it was the iris. Her response was kind of an abrupt "Really? I didn't know they had any smell to them." I stood my ground, as I often did, despite her doubt.
These types of stories about conversations with my grandmother used to bother me, a sort of indication that we struggled to relate to one another, or argued about who was right. I really wanted to be "right" one day. Certainly the time would come for me to show her. These tales have lasted through the years, but have taken on much more of an endearing quality. They are just part of our history...our very rich history.