“Midsummer is a field of Queen Anne’s-lace spiked with the blue of chicory,” declares Barbara Pond in her 1974 book, A Sampler of Wayside Herbs. My all-time-favorite boss made me a gift of the book, lo these many years ago, explaining that that combination of wildflowers, which graces the book’s cover, was his favorite. He and I labored together as editors at the small press he had founded, and he loved words the way I do. If he’d discovered a new word the night before, we’d all know it when we heard his footsteps in the hall, because he’d be clapping his hands with glee. “Defenestrate,” he’d announce at each of our offices, on the way to his own office. And, because we all adored him, we shared his pleasure. Fifty years later, I still smile when I come across one of his words.
I also smile when I come across his wildflowers, Queen Anne’s lace and chicory. The combination is everywhere now, and this summer’s version is especially showy, as the Queen Anne’s lace is extra tall. The plant might normally reach four feet tall standing on its tiptoes. The dog and I passed some yesterday that was nearly six feet tall. It was exuberant, like Lew clapping his hands.
I’ve heard it said that no one who has died has yet figured out a way to communicate with those they leave behind, but I don’t know that I agree. I feel a direct link to Lew when I see the flowers he so enjoyed. I feel a similar link to my mom when I see the flower she invariably called “bee balm-bergamot-monarda.” She grew it in her gardens and loved it for itself and for its names—all three of them. Can I share with Lew that Queen Anne’s lace has umbels or tell Mom that bergamot has even more names? Perhaps not yet, but the time will come. “Horse mint, Mom! Oswego tea!”
On a lighter note, one of my coworkers at the Thrift Shop received intimations of mortality from her tracking watch last week. Wordsworth concerned himself with intimations of immortality. The watch limited its own remit to Abby’s quick-or-dead status. It buzzed her wrist every four minutes to deliver messages on the order of, “It’s 1:12. Look alive!” followed shortly by, “It’s 1:16. Look alive!” and so on.
As Abby had done nothing to instigate this series of messages, she had no idea how to stop them. Her coworker was no help either, finding the messages hilarious. And, while Abby’s sense of humor is alive and well, she began to be perturbed at this every-four-minute suggestion that the rest of her might not be. She began talking back to the watch. “I wasn’t aware of looking particularly dead!” she said, with what bordered on indignation. Inside of an hour, the messages ceased, as mysteriously as they had begun. I’d rather get my ethereal communications from flowers.
The south side of our stretch of Plymouth Road is awash in yellow flowers. Black-eyed Susans, they’re called, which I found confusing as a child. After all, the “eye” in question isn’t black, it’s brown. Not even always dark brown. Also, why Susan? I knew people named Susan and couldn’t see the resemblance, myself. But some things, a child just has to take as given. The flowers are a glorious color. The exact color of goldfinches, I was reminded again this morning. When a goldfinch rises from a field of black-eyed Susans, it looks like a flower taking flight.
Becky was walking with me, when it happened, and the sight reminded her that the sunflowers are already blooming in northwest Wyoming, where she lives. “I usually think of them blooming later in the summer,” she said, “about mid-August, but they’re out now,” and they, too, are the exact color of goldfinches. She and a friend had opportunity to verify that last week, when goldfinches graced the cheery sunflowers that grow wild in her adopted state. Sunflowers aren’t native to Wyoming, but they sure are happy there. They’re even cultivated there for export.
They ones that grow near Becky aren’t a cash crop. They’re wild and mostly small and low. Goldfinches like to eat them, which leads to more sunflowers, which leads to more goldfinches. It’s wonderful how that works out. Maybe I should leave the sight of the yellow birds in the yellow flowers as a message from me, for when I’m no longer here. That “gift of joy and wonder in all your works,” for which we pray on behalf of the newly baptized, is a message onto itself.
28 July 2023
Is the watch a Fitbit? That is apparently a snooze alarm/wake up alarm (it thought she was napping). Tap bottom right of screen says a website; also that walking 50 steps in a row might also work.