It’s almost Thanksgiving – and I’m bringing the flowers to the feast.  I decided I had better practice with the vintage bean pot I bought for the arrangement.  I don’t want my flowers to look like “loving hands at home.”  (That’s a way of saying “bless your heart” about homemade dresses and floral arrangements.)

So this is a trial run, composed of flowers I know Trader Joe will have on hand this week.  I’m no florist, but I think it turned out pretty good.  Now on Tuesday, I’ll buy fresh stems to take for my hostess on Thanksgiving in their own pretty arrangement – and these will stay home with me in another vase.

Mums and roses – simple and beautiful enough for even me to fill up a big ole bean pot and say, “I’m thankful.”

Now, my dears, it’s late and I am going to be dozing off in just the twinkling of an eye.

But I’ll tell you, it was like magic to walk down the pathway to my plot and realize the spires of color standing in rows were my very own snapdragons – and it was a darn good thing I brought two buckets.

And that’s a sweet dream for us all, on this rainy summer night.

The thing is that if you plant all the snapdragons and lisianthus starts on the same day – they are going to be ready to harvest at just about the same time. It’s not something you can expect a lot of sympathy about. “Oh no! You have two buckets bursting with flowers? How will you cope, poor thing!” Said no one, ever.

If you wanted to come over now, I would let you. For one thing, there are flower arrangements everywhere – so it looks like a really special person lives here, to deserve so many flowers. Also most of the moving boxes are unpacked, and I can live with what you might think about the ones that are still standing in the corner of the dining room. Plus my brand new vacuum fluffed the carpet to a luxurious soft velour – so you would understand completely when I made you take off your shoes.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to fix up this place – that’s just the reality of my budget and my age and my minimal level of homeowner competence. But as long as Everything Has A Place – and Everything is in Its Place, then the sofa and love seat will hold us, and the table will serve us and the kitchen will provide coffee and cookies as needed. The only missing necessity is you.

The lisianthus and the snapdragons were all blooming today, and I scooped up as many as I could, along with a few patio petunias that I cut back hoping to encourage some new buds. I spent $150 on these seedlings, and I am not sorry at all.  If I hadn’t splurged, I’m not sure I’d have any flowers at all.  The heavy rain drowned all the seeds I planted, except the calendula for some reason, and the starts I sprouted indoors have not fared too well in the soggy soil. Slugs and bunnies – take your pick – had their feast on the tender leaves before the roots could catch up and fight back. Ah well – circle of life, you know.

Anyway, I don’t mean to complain! This is so damn pretty, even if I do say so myself.

Every season can be nostalgic – but summer is most nostalgic to me.  She rolls unchanged through much of childhood – the pool opens, the fireflies arrive, the mosquitos feast on our bare legs and toes.  We are older so we do older things, that’s true.  But there are no report cards, unless you count the summer loves and new driver’s licenses.  And even today, you have only to turn off the air conditioner and open the windows, and soon the house will settle into a warm, expectant stillness, punctuated by a brief breeze or birdsong, exactly as it would have when you were much, much younger, waiting for summer things to happen.

One – and only one – corn flower volunteered this year, and its color is ravishing.  By contrast, the cosmos flung their seeds quite vigorously, and have sprouted literally everywhere except within my plot.  I dug a few feathery green volunteers out from the wood chip paths and transplanted them into the cosmo row.  Others are inveigling their spots right on the edge of my neighbor’s plots – where they are being tolerated so far.  I’m not sure these neighbors understand that a cosmo quickly becomes as woody and thick as a small shrub.  And I’m not going to spoil the surprise.