Tucked away in my memories like 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 followers know, the farmhouse of my childhood memories was purchased a few years ago by my husband and I. It was then 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 shoot in the old cow pen behind the barn.
Unbeknownst to me, that fertile soil would ignite passion and vigor at beanstalk speed.
So now, only two years later, the breeze near the farmhouse once again blows with the fragrance of old-fashioned creamy pink roses.
And what of the farmhouse perimeter?
It blooms . . .
Oh, how it blooms.
But that’s not all. There’s more to the blooming farmhouse story.
Due to the fact no chemicals are sprayed on its lawn, and the mower is purposely maneuvered around promising clumps of weeds,
the lawn blooms in wildflowers!
What a world it is . . .
in the embrace of June.
Hugs to you from the Prairie.
All words and photos property of Peacock Prairie.