I have found the mothership.
And the girls on it are wearing cute shoes.
Last week I saw a Facebook invitation to an old friend I haven’t seen in a *long* time’s 5th annual spring planting party. I don’t know where I’ve been for the other four years, but they are years to be mourned with great sadness.
{Actually, I do know the answer, and it’s: off of Facebook.}
This soirée boasted a dozen bright, humble, kind women of all gardening skill levels but solely high enthusiasm. Most of them were younger than me. All of them were awesome. I intended to take a couple of pictures because I knew pretty immediately I wanted to blog about it. This did not happen. I was too busy trying to play it cool.
So what’s a girl to do but beg politely ask the lovely hostess, Kate, to take a couple snaps for me post-party, so these are her pictures in this post. More on that later…
While at this party we talked Lenten roses. We talked native geranium. We talked canning, and manure, astilbe and powdery mildew.
I had no chill.
I felt like I wanted to say “I never said I told you so, but I do want to say I might have mentioned it,” to no one in particular. For, you see, I’ve had this inkling for years…maybe a decade even…that there is a generation begging to get some dirt under their nails. Of my friends who don’t garden, several of them still express a desire for the know how, the spirit, the gumption {if you will} to get out there and give it a go. Most of them dwell in suburbia, and most of them grew up with parents growing lush green lawns and hardly anything else.
They have the wants, but the fear monster is keeping them down.
There’s probably some esoteric explanation for this resurgence…I’ll just chalk it up to there being coolness in every generation.
Coolness is indeed the segue back to the lovely hostess, Kate.
Y’ALL KATE IS A SUBURBAN FLOWER GROWER. As in, she sells what she grows at our local farmer’s market some Saturdays. Like I said: no chill. I think my jaw literally hit the floor. Of course, then, another new friend casually mentions Kate’s Instagram account, so I pop right on over right then in the middle of the party.
This is not my picture either. Yet, somehow, it is my picture.
So, if we are real life friends, I hate to do it this way, but I think we should break up. It’s not you, it’s me. And Kate…ok, it’s mostly Kate. I’m just not going to have any time or emotional energy left over for any of you anymore. Totes sorry about that.
Me + Kate = BFF 4-eva
{ps Kate’s Instagram account is called FIGANDFERNFLOWERS. You’re welcome. And you owe me. Big.}
