Tucked away in my memories like old lace in the linen closet are childhood visits to the neighboring farmhouse. Climbing the secret stairs under towering maples, my siblings and I knew to circle round to the back porch in search of chewy oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies and a coveted visit. In June, the perimeter of the old farmhouse bloomed in cascades of creamy pink roses,
their fragrance as treasured as the cookies and camaraderie we sought.
As many of you longtime followers know, a few years back, the farmhouse was uprooted and rolled . . .
to a nearby hayfield, now known as Peacock Prairie.
At the time of this venture, only a few scraggly roses remained; their shoots clutching the window shutters like feebleness clutches a walker.
Anticipating their further demise, with the pending ‘uplifting’ project,
I transplanted a small thorny shoot in the old cow pen.
Unbeknownst to me, the soil in the cow pen would ignite passion and youthful vigor at beanstalk speed.
And so now, two years later, the breeze near the farmhouse once again blows fragrant with the scent of old-fashioned creamy pink roses.
And what of the farmhouse perimeter?
It blooms . . .
oh, how it blooms.
BUT, unbelievably, that’s not all. There’s more to the blooming farmhouse story.
Due to the fact no chemicals of any kind are sprayed on its lawn or gardens, and the mower is purposely maneuvered around promising clumps of budding weeds,
the farmhouse lawn blooms in wildflowers!
What a world it is . . .
in the embrace of June.
Hugs, from the Prairie.
All words and photos property of Peacock Prairie.