Flowers

I Am Extremely Fortunate

Yeah, Another Blogger180 Comments

Last Monday, the first day of the second half of rapidly disappearing 2025, found me at the medical office building where I’ve volunteered for 13 years, manning its information desk. The part-time gig keeps me on my toes. Many patients arrive without knowing which suite their doctor works in, for instance. It’s my job to point them in the right direction. And sometimes I come to peoples’ “rescue,” such as when I aid those who, their medical appointments completed, can’t remember where in the nearby parking garage they deposited their cars. Off I go with them to that multi-level structure to solve the problem.

I like the job, which occupies me for four hours each week. Without it, I’d have a relative paucity of human interactions, seeing that I spend a hefty percentage of my time resting my aged, bony ass upon the living room sofa. Plus, helping people out boosts my spirits. Basically, I need to feel as though I’ve still got something to offer society.

Last Monday was a typical day at work. I answered questions from, and helped unravel somewhat-knotty situations for, approximately 50 individuals. However, during my shift something struck me more than it usually does: I clearly realized that a whole lot of visitors to the building were using and relying on canes, walkers and wheelchairs. And nowhere near all of those folks were senior citizens. This was a sobering observation. It brought to the surface a piece of self-knowledge that normally resides in the bottom reaches of my subconscious. Namely, I am extremely fortunate. Here I am, pushing age 80, and I get around on my legs just fine. I can walk for five or more miles, no problem. And though it would be foolhardy of me to attempt an all-out sprint, trotting remains within my powers. Yeah, anything might yet happen, but I’ve retained more than decent mobility.

And my good fortune extends way beyond my legs. My health in general, according to medical tests and my physicians, is solid. I’ve had one very dangerous health situation in my life. Thanks to modern medicine and just plain positive luck, it appears to be permanently confined to the rearview mirror. Of course, nobody knows that for certain, but the odds are in my favor.

What’s more, I have plenty to eat, and my country (the USA), though in the hands of a freedoms-suppressing megalomaniac, is not a war zone. I almost feel guilty about my good fortune, considering how difficult so many people have it in the States and all around the world. Poor health, poor healthcare availability, and inadequate food intake are some of the injustices plaguing hundreds of millions of individuals. And armed conflicts make life a living hell, or close to it, for so, so many. Not just in Ukraine and Gaza, but in violence-beset nations that don’t receive much media attention. Haiti and Sudan, to name two, and Myanmar and Yemen, to name two more.

Yes, the human condition, in certain respects, is horrible. Always has been. Always will be.

Considerate guy that I occasionally am, I’ll leave you on a sunny note: My good fortune expanded at the tail end of last year when I discovered Abigail Lapell. She’s a fine Canadian singer-songwriter who isn’t too well known outside her home country. Her latest album, Anniversary, came out 16 months ago. I’m in love with one of its songs, Flowers In My Hair, which is the first song in many a moon that I can’t (and don’t want to) get out of my head.  A meditation on going with the flow while letting love reign over you, it is dominated by angelic vocals and by mesmerizing percussion provided via handclaps and foot stomps. Flowers In My Hair, to me, is sweet as a peach and free as a bird. Give it a listen.

Spectacles!

Yeah, Another Blogger154 Comments

I’m not sure when the Northern Lights captured my imagination. Maybe when I was in my 30s. Whatever the case, for a hell of a long time I’ve wanted to see them up close and personal, not just on YouTube videos or on television documentaries. They (and their counterpart, the Southern Lights) can be spectacles of the highest order, as we all know. However, to satisfy this craving I’d have to head to Alaska, Iceland or the like in late autumn or in winter, which is when the light displays generally are at their best. Most likely, that would entail enduring ass-numbing temperatures, something I once would have been okay with but am not at all keen on anymore. So, I have a feeling the craving will go unfulfilled.

Cape Cod, Massachusetts (October 2023)

Well, I can live with that. But I sure wouldn’t want my life to be spectacle-less. Over the last 30 or thereabouts years, I’ve developed a powerful need to be thrilled and awed on a somewhat regular basis by one spectacle or another. By sunsets, for instance, many of which I’ve witnessed during that span. Man, good sunsets are jaw-droppers, right? They are so inspiring and beautiful, you can hardly believe they are real. The same goes, of course, for sunrises. But not many of them have unfolded before my eyes, as I am not a fan of dragging my previously referred-to ass out of the house at ungodly early hours.

Cape Cod, Massachusetts (October 2021)

And I can’t get enough of energized ocean waters, either. Watching and listening to waves develop and roll to shore puts me in a hypnotic sort of state. I engage in this activity frequently on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, where my wife Sandy and I have vacationed almost annually since 1998. I purposely overdose on it, in fact, since our permanent home, in Pennsylvania, is nowhere near the ocean. By doing so, the magic of the Cape’s ocean waters stays with me for several months after I’m back home.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (January 1, 2020)

Not every spectacle that rings my bell mightily is Nature-made, though. I’m into fireworks, which, when superior, are a fairly good rival, I suppose, to the Northern and Southern Lights. And in recent years I’ve enjoyed the Philadelphia Flower Show, a famed annual event that, out of ignorance, I pooh-poohed for decades before mending my ways.

Now, I’m not a gardener in any meaningful sense. Sandy and I own a home whose grounds I try to maintain halfway decently. Meaning, I mow, rake and prune — rudimentary tasks — to the best of my limited abilities. But I don’t plant or transplant flora, or nurture them in any way. That’s why I paid no attention whatsoever to the Philadelphia Flower Show (PFS) until 2016, when Sandy and I, kind of just for the heck of it, decided to give the production a whirl. It hooked me immediately, not because I found myself inspired to create flower beds at home or to learn the ins and outs of horticulture, but because it was spectacular. Imaginative installations and wide palettes of colors abounded. I’m proud to say I’ve returned to the flower show five times since my inaugural visit.

Philadelphia Flower Show (March 2025)

Though not quite as swell as some previous years’ extravaganzas, PFS’s 2025 version, held in a cavernous convention center in downtown Philadelphia, damn well was plenty good enough. Sandy and I visited the multi-day event two weeks ago, exploring the display areas for two hours, at which point we ran out of gas.

Philadelphia Flower Show (March 2025)
Philadelphia Flower Show (March 2025)

As always, I happily succumbed to the bright colors — of flowers, light installations and other design elements — that filled the hall. They got my juices flowing. And the PFS environment was a welcoming one, too, for, as had been the case on our previous visits, the show attracted a broad spectrum of people. Young and old. Black and white. Mobile and disabled. It felt good to be part of an inclusive community. Inclusion is where it’s at.

More spectacles are on the horizon this year. Flowering trees, magnolias initially, I think, probably will begin to bloom in my area in early April, possibly before then. Is there anyone who doesn’t like their enormous masses of blossoms? Also during spring, Sandy and I will return to Cape Cod. There, ocean waters and unobstructed sunsets, among other natural delights, will be on view. I can barely wait to soak all of this in.

Blossoms Backed By Blue

Yeah, Another Blogger158 Comments

“To me, flowers look best when there are masses of them.” Those words came from a guy who, overall, doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. Namely, from me. Once in a while, though, I realize I do know what I’m talking about. which led me to post that comment recently on In The Net! – Pictures and Stories of Life, Lynette d’Arty-Cross’s fine website that focuses on the beauty of the natural world.

What’s better than flowers? They are bursting with life, yet are peaceful. And, I’m certain, they connect positively with just about every human on Planet Earth, even with evil motherf*ckers. I wouldn’t be surprised, for instance, if the residences of Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong Un, and the surrounding grounds, boast flower displays that would knock your socks off.

Yes, I believe that you can’t have too many flowers. I began to embrace that opinion strongly circa 2018. I’m not sure why it hadn’t dawned on me much earlier. Whatever, I’m happy that I eventually wised up.

As fields of flowers don’t exist anywhere near where I live, I’ve developed a semi-obsession with flowering trees, which contain oceans of blossoms in relatively concentrated spaces. Those trees are miraculous. And, seeing that their performances don’t last for more than a handful of weeks, it behooves a flower aficionado to feast his or her eyes upon them while the feasting is good.

The spring season, here in southeast Pennsylvania, USA, was in pretty full gear by the second half of April. Various species of flowering trees were strutting their stuff. So, when a nice sunny day rolled around on the 22nd of April, I decided to take advantage of it, knowing that the blue skies would help the blossoms to look their very best. I wasn’t wrong. As I rambled for an hour through my neighborhood and an adjoining neighborhood, I soaked up the loveliness of thousands upon thousands of tree flowers, getting as close to them as I could, and allowing plenty of blue to enhance the views. My phone’s camera immortalized my walk. A few samples of its work accompany this story.

You know, when I left my house to go flower-hunting that late morning, I didn’t know that my mini expedition was taking place on Earth Day. I thought that Earth Day, an excellent event, had been celebrated two days prior. When you think about it, though, every day should be Earth Day. If humankind were a whole lot smarter than it is, individuals, governments and businesses would be doing whatever it takes, urgently, to try and repair the wounds that we’ve inflicted upon our gorgeous orb since the start of the Industrial Revolution about 250 years ago.

However, I’ve read (click here) that, despite substantial inroads made by renewable energy sources, fossil fuels (oil, coal and natural gas) remain dominant, accounting for about 80% of global energy usage. Heat-trapping greenhouse gases (such as carbon dioxide and methane) produced by the burning of fossil fuels are the main culprits behind climate change. That 80% figure needs to drop enormously in order to mitigate climate change’s manifestations: global warming; rising sea levels; extreme weather events; droughts; forest fires and floods, to name some of the biggies. Analysts, though, are divided as to when, or if, this might happen. Even under the best-case scenario, depressingly, enormous quantities of fossil fuels will continue to be burned for many years to come.

And don’t get me started on deforestation, plastic pollution and other mammoth non-climate-change-related crimes we have been committing. Holy shit, it’s absolutely incredible how destructive, and self-destructive, our species is.

On that note, I now shall sign off. By the time this story is published I will have bathed in the beauty of flowering trees several more times. They are good for my spirits. I damn well need them.

A Nice Day

Yeah, Another Blogger158 Comments

Twelve days ago, after paying our bill at Barbuzzo, a restaurant in downtown Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, my wife and I exited the establishment and then walked a few blocks to Jefferson Station. There, we caught a train that returned us to our suburban town. Halfway between Barbuzzo and the station I said to Sandy, “This was a nice day.” I wasn’t the least bit surprised when she said she had been thinking the same thing.

Yup, our worries and woes were in hiding during the five and a half hours we spent in Philadelphia that Thursday, first at The Philadelphia Flower Show and then at Barbuzzo. I don’t know, maybe I’d been sprinkled with a heavy dose of magic dust before leaving home in the early afternoon, because I was cool, calm and collected in Philly, as relaxed as when I’m drifting off to sleep. Even the substantial crowd at the flower show didn’t bother me in the least. “Hell,” I said to myself, “everyone here has just as much right as I do to get up close and personal with the exhibits.” What? I, whose nerves often are easily jangled, actually felt that way? I did. I sure would love to be in such an at-ease frame of mind far more than I normally am. Will the transformation occur before my time expires on Planet Earth? Well, “miracles” are known to happen. But I’m not holding my breath.

I’ve been living in or near Philadelphia since the mid-1970s, but for decades never paid any attention to The Philadelphia Flower Show, a famed annual event. In 2016, though, almost on a whim, Sandy and I decided to go. I liked the experience, and now have attended five times. This year’s production, which ran for nine days, was as sweet as summer fruit, despite being held in a non-descript hall large enough to accommodate a number of jumbo jets.

Each year’s flower show has a theme, 2024’s being United By Flowers. I’m all for unity and, like just about everyone, am pro-flowers. So, I couldn’t go wrong. Excellent flowers were almost everywhere in the exhibits area. Ditto for other forms of flora. Sandy and I spent two and a half hours admiring the many installations, doubling back at times to re-examine the five or six that had particularly wowed us. We spent an additional 30 minutes wandering around the vendors section, where more products than you could shake a stick at — and not just horticultural items — were for sale.

Besides the beauty and creativity on display, was there anything else about the show I liked? Affirmative. I admired the diversity of people in attendance. They ranged in age from those that hadn’t yet reached their first birthday to old f*ckers such as me. A wide range of races and cultures were on the scene. And numerous folks with mobility issues didn’t let the enormity of the hall keep them away. Wheelchairs, motorized scooters and canes abounded.

Around 5:00 PM, Sandy and I heard dinner’s call. So, we bade farewell to the flower show and made our way to 13th Street. Philadelphia’s restaurant scene is amazingly strong, and a four-block-long section of 13th Street is one of the prime destinations for restaurant goers. We couldn’t get into Darling Jack’s Tavern, our first choice. But 50 feet away was Barbuzzo, an Italian eatery we’d passed many times but had never frequented. In we went. The place was mobbed, dimly lit and looked cozy. Could they accommodate us? Sure, but only at the chef’s counter, where two stools apparently had been waiting to greet our rear ends.

Happy with our perches, we watched meals being cooked five feet away from us, in pans sitting atop the burners of a stove as solid as an army tank. The burners’ flames, and those from the nearby wood-fueled pizza oven, kept us good and warm. I kept glancing at the oven, whose fury fascinated me. Its portrait was the only photo I took in the restaurant.

We kept things simple at Barbuzzo, whose menu ranges wide, opting for a salad, a Margherita pizza, beer and wine. Everything was delicious. And, before we knew it, it was time to head home.

At 8:06 PM, we arrived at Jefferson Station, giving us very little time to catch the 8:10 train. If we missed it, we would have had to wait an hour for the next one. F*ck that! But we didn’t miss it. Moving quickly through the waiting area and down the stairs, we reached the train platform just as the 8:10 was pulling in. Nice.

Springtime Close-Ups

Yeah, Another Blogger156 Comments

Maybe it was due to global warming, or maybe Nature was just feeling antsy. Whatever the reason, spring arrived way earlier than usual this year in my neck of the woods, aka southeastern Pennsylvania, USA. Man, I saw a few trees in flower on the 22nd of March, for crying out loud. That’s at least three weeks sooner than tree-blossoming normally begins. And maples and other big boys of the non-flowering kind unfurled their greenery far ahead of schedule too.

I ain’t complaining, though. A lover of colorful spectacles, I rate the springtime performances of flora quite high on my entertainment list (though not at the lofty level occupied by autumn’s leaves-changing-color extravaganza). Thus, you’ll find me taking a number of walks each spring in which my focus is to admire colors that were unavailable during winter. I spent an hour recently in my suburban neighborhood doing exactly that. My trusty and trusted smart phone was in hand, its camera poised for action. The plan was to use the camera strictly for close-ups. Not of my face, of course, as any images of that rutted, crusty object would have shattered the f*cking camera lens. But of flowering trees and bushes? You bet! Close-ups eliminate surrounding distractions. They get straight to the heart. A close-ups day it would be.

Japanese cherry tree
Japanese andromeda

The conditions for the walk were ideal — sunny, cool and breezy. So breezy, in fact, that I had to hold on tightly to my baseball cap a few times, lest it blow off the previously mentioned rutted, crusty object. I strolled from block to block to block, getting up close and personal with cherry trees, azalea and lilac bushes, and other examples of Nature’s wonders. That didn’t happen as often as I’d have liked, however, since many lovely creations were in the middle or rears of people’s lawns. You better believe I wasn’t about to step onto those lawns, not being in the mood to have homeowners yell at me from their front doors or, worse, come dashing out of their homes to confront me. Sadly but truly, you never know what might happen these days. We sure as shit live in uncertain times.

Dogwood tree
Azalea bush

Nonetheless, the walk was a damn fine one. I felt relaxed and at peace, my head pretty much devoid of thoughts. All of which took me by surprise, as I am, for the most part, a natural-born worrier and overthinker, and good and tight in the shoulders too. Calmly on the lookout for pretty colors, I somehow had entered a near-zen state. That’s part of the magic that a Nature walk sometimes imparts to me. I could go for that degree of mental and emotional clarity and ease all the time. It’s the way to be, of that there is no doubt.

Azalea bush
Lilac bush

I haven’t inhaled spring’s charms and soothing hues all that much since the walk I describe took place. I plan to pick up the pace soon, though, because before you know it all of the flowering trees and shrubs in my area will have dropped their blossoms. I find it a shame that spring’s delicacy and soothingness don’t last for at least several weeks more than they do. If I were in charge of Nature, they would. Hell, let’s take this a few steps further: If I were in charge of Nature, violence and disease would not exist. Living things would not feed upon other living things. The world, in other words, would be a gentle and wonderful place, one in which all organisms, including humans, of course, would spend their days in fulfilling and pain-free manners.

A boy can dream, right?

Flora Galore!

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

I’m fairly certain I’ve mentioned in at least one or two earlier stories that I ain’t an ace when it comes to gardening. I garden, but only in a utilitarian sense. That is, I mow the lawn surrounding my house as needed. I gather up shitloads of fallen leaves each autumn and winter and put them out for collection. I pull out weeds. I prune shrubs and trees as best I can to keep them from becoming crazily overgrown. And . . . well, that’s about it.

In other words, I don’t plant or transplant. I don’t fertilize or otherwise nurture. I don’t attempt to expand or reconfigure the placements of flora on my grounds. Thus, the grounds look more or less as they did in 2005, the year my wife Sandy (who is not a gardener at all) and I bought our house, except that several shrubs and one tree have bitten the dust since then, as have numerous flowers. Still, things look okay overall. To my eye, anyway. A facelift definitely wouldn’t hurt though, or a few changes simply for change’s sake.

So, what’s holding me back from engaging in meaningful gardening? Indifference, for one thing. And a bigger factor: It intimidates me. Meaning, I’m afraid I’d mess things up badly were I to thrust my hands into the soil. Yes, where gardening is concerned, I’m a f*cking wuss.

However, I’m happy to report that both Sandy and I are keen appreciators of other people’s efforts to create and maintain attractively designed grounds. Who isn’t? Those endeavors, after all, are artistic enterprises and expressions. It almost goes without saying, then, that we had a fine time earlier this month at the annual Philadelphia Flower Show, a famous event organized by the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society. The show began quietly in 1829 and has, over time, become a big deal. Out of ignorance, I used to thumb my nose at the Flower Show. I wised up in 2016, the first year I attended. Our visit this month was my fourth and Sandy’s fifth.

We arrived at the show, held in Philadelphia’s cavernous convention center, on the third day of its nine-day run. The show’s theme, which changes each year, was The Garden Electric. As that name implies, bold lighting was woven into many of the sights. I think that the show organizers also opted for the word electric in order to get folks psyched for the upcoming spring season’s unfoldings and blossomings.

The premises were plenty crowded. I was happy to see that mobility issues didn’t keep some people away, as canes, walkers, wheelchairs and motorized scooters abounded. Babies in strollers and carriages were on the scene too. All of which made for a welcoming environment, though the size of the crowd meant that long lines awaited Sandy and me at some of the special exhibits.

The waits were worth it, as the special exhibits, for me, were what the event was all about. (I had no interest in the sections of the floor where potted plants, sitting on tables, had been judged and awarded ribbons, or the enormous section where plants, horticultural tools and tons of other products were for sale.)

Tulips, daffodils, hyacinth
Dense vegetation near the winding path

Many of the special exhibits were either gardens or less-structured landscapes, all of their flora anchored in soil. It was easy to forget that these displays were mounted on a concrete floor. I immediately took a liking to the swath of lawn blessed by hundreds of tulips, daffodils and hyacinth, whose punchy colors rocked. And I was an even bigger fan of the mini-woods, which was dense with vegetation and alive with fragrances. I ambled along its winding path, my blood pressure dropping with every step. Soothing, man, soothing.

Part of the exhibit of wispy, tendrilled sculptures

Other special exhibits left the world of reality pretty much behind, such as the display of wispy, tendrilled sculptures, behind glass and bathed in black light. That exhibit, in fact, pleased me more than anything I saw during the three and a half hours Sandy and I spent at the show. It was very cool. Yes, there is no doubt I’ve become a believer in the Philadelphia Flower Show. If all goes as planned, Sandy and I will return for the 2024 edition.

I’m going to conclude the proceedings with a nod to a blog I enjoy: Paddy Tobin, An Irish Gardener (click here to view it). Unlike me, Paddy and his wife are masterful gardeners. The grounds of their home look great, due to their hard work and artistic vision. A stroll through Paddy’s blog will show you what I mean. Enjoy!

Ozark; Azaleas; Love Letter From A Red Roof Inn

Yeah, Another Blogger119 Comments

Well, as millions of fans of dark and dirty doings know, the Netflix series Ozark has come to a close. And, predictably, this saga (44 episodes in all), heavily populated by morally compromised people doing despicable things, does not conclude in a tidy manner. As the screen goes dark and a gunshot thunders a mere moment before the credits begin their final roll, any number of questions are left unanswered about four of the show’s main characters, the Byrde family.

Unanswered, yes. I’d have to say, however, that the future clearly does not look bright for Marty and Wendy Byrde, the married pair around whom Ozark significantly revolves, nor for their 15-year-old son Jonah. Possibly Marty and Wendy’s daughter Charlotte, a couple of years Jonah’s senior, has a chance to grow towards the light. But I wouldn’t bet heavy money on that.

What else would you expect, anyway, from a series fueled by the unrelenting pressures placed upon Marty by a Mexican drug cartel whose monies he must launder if he wishes to remain above ground? Man, the directions in which those pressures take Marty, a financial advisor by trade, and Wendy are head-spinning. And the fallout from their maneuverings affects Jonah heavily, and nearly everyone else they come in contact with too.

Such an intense, over-the-top show! I couldn’t get enough of it. Each season I’d stare at the tube in disbelief as, left and right, minor and major players exited permanently, usually by gunfire. Ozark’s foulness put me in a bear hug and wouldn’t let go. I’ll miss the series. And I’ll pass on to you the one big lesson that Ozark taught me. Namely, don’t f*ck with a Mexican drug cartel, or with any similar enterprise, needless to say. You better believe that I damn well won’t.

I’m not strictly a denizen of the lower realms. So, some things way more positive than Ozark also have pleased me of late. For instance, the spring season. Yes, plant life has been looking good here in southeast Pennsylvania, USA for the last five or six weeks, with maple and oak trees and the like flaunting their foliage, and flowering trees dazzling human eyes with their blossoms. What’s more, most of the azaleas in my area burst into bloom about two weeks ago, adding tremendously to the spring spectacular. Ah, azaleas. When dense with flowers, they are hard to beat.

Fortunately for me, each year I get a mega-dose of azalea magic, because my friend Joyce, who lives nearby, is in possession of azaleas as fine as any I’m aware of. The azaleas in front of her house not only glow in a number of different hues, they also are enormous. I’d guess that the square footage taken up by those plants is about one-fourth of the square footage within her home. That’s saying something.

And, though maybe it’s only my imagination, Joyce’s azaleas look better to me this year, in terms of fullness and vibrancy, than ever before. In any case, I bow to them.

Before I bid you adieu, I’ll say a bit about a song, Love Letter From A Red Roof Inn, that needed no help in becoming a favorite of mine after I heard it for the first time earlier this month. It is a winner. (And, parenthetically, let me note that its title is as cool as they come.) Released in late 2021, Love Letter, by the blue-eyed soul band St. Paul & The Broken Bones, unfolds seductively. Lead singer Paul Janeway pours his heart out to the listener, quietly and in a falsetto as sweet as clover honey. Alone in a hotel room, he misses his lady. He’s homesick. He’s on the verge of crying himself to sleep.

St. Paul & The Broken Bones have got what it takes. I’ve seen them on TV and would love to catch them in person. After hearing this song you might want to also. Here, then, is Love Letter From A Red Roof Inn, a recording that would have made waves back in the 1960s and 70s, when soul music by The Temptations, Aretha Franklin, The Delfonics, etc., etc. rode high on the music charts. Till next time!

A Flowering Trees Story

Yeah, Another Blogger142 Comments

Nobody is ever going to mistake me for a botanist, that’s for damn sure. By which I mean that I don’t know shit, basically, when it comes to plants. Yeah, I can identify a few trees and flowers. And I might exclaim “hey, there’s a fern!” when I see one. Beyond that, however, please don’t press me.

Nonetheless, I enjoy spending time outdoors among flora. Who doesn’t? We all want our minds to be expanded, if not blown, you see, even if we know it only subconsciously. And what better way to allow this to happen than to initiate close contact with Nature’s fibrous wonders, absorbing their good vibes?

With that in mind, on the morning of April 27th I eased my aged ass from the living room sofa, hopped, more or less, into my car, and drove to a pretty neighborhood in a nearby town. Specific sorts of flora — flowering trees — not only were on my mind, they were the reason for my mini-expedition.

I’m not sure why, but I didn’t pay much attention to flowering trees until fairly recent years. A big oversight on my part. Since then, though, I’ve made it a point to check them out in April and May, which is when they do their unfurling thing in my part of the globe (I live in Pennsylvania, USA). Their blossomy performance is, of course, a winner. What’s not to like about shades of, primarily, pink, purple and white? Those hues sure liven up the green-dominated landscape around here this time of year.

What’s more, knowing that the performance doesn’t last forever imbues it with poignancy. Poof! — before you know it the petals are gone. Until a new production is staged the following year.

Well, I wandered through the neighborhood for an hour, gazing at the flowers on magnolia, cherry, dogwood and other trees. They looked good. After 30 minutes, though, I found myself disappointed by the relatively modest numbers of those trees. At least half of the properties I passed that day contained none at all, in fact. Man, how cool would it have been if I’d seen 10 or 20 times as many? Very. The blossom experience then would have overwhelmed and enveloped, like an ecstatic fireworks display.

And so, with intensification as my goal, over the next half hour I got much nearer to the flowers than I had previously during the walk, within inches in most instances and nose-to-nose twice. The strategy worked. From those vantages the blossoms made a hell of an impression, intricately designed and decidedly gorgeous as they were. And they instantly became my friends, wanting only to please. “Hello, Neil,” they whispered, “thanks for visiting. We’re at your service.”

“You’re the best,” I whispered back.

“But don’t linger, old timer,” they added. “You won’t be a happy sightseer if someone storms out of their house, yelling at you to get the f*ck off their property.”

True! Thus, I kept my up-close-and-personal sessions short. Thank you, blossoms, for having my back.

Sitting at my computer keyboard now, a number of days after the events described above, I’m wondering what came over me halfway through the stroll, as I’d never felt let down before by any aspect of springtime. Maybe the rotten state of affairs in the world — Russia rearing its ugly head; the growth of fascism in many nations, including my own — was wearing on me, putting me in need of big jolts of beauty. In any event, I’m back to my normal self. Grumpy, as usual, but appreciative too.

Let’s close the proceedings with a tune that, title-wise, is a perfect match for this essay. I discovered it a couple of days after my close encounters with flowering trees. Ordinarily I’m not a big fan of bouncy songs. But the more I listen to Cherry Blossom, by pop and country star Kacey Musgraves, the more I like it. Beneath the sugar and gloss it has a strong layer of soul. Likening herself to a cherry blossom, Kacey hopes and prays that her relationship with her new boyfriend, whom she’s mad about, will hold, that the wind won’t blow her away. I’m pulling for her.

A Sunflower Story

Yeah, Another Blogger150 Comments

“What the hell is wrong with you, Neil?” my unsubtle editor Edgar Reewright shouted into the phone a couple of weeks ago. He had called moments earlier with a special request — he wanted me to compose a story about sunflowers — and I had balked at the idea. “I mean, what do you have against sunflowers? Just about everybody likes sunflowers, right? Right. Furthermore, if they were good enough for Vincent van Gogh, who, unlike yourself, was a genius, then they damn well are good enough for you.”

“Neil,” Edgar continued, “have I ever asked anything of you before? Other than demanding high payments to compensate me for the extraordinary pains I take to make your writings intelligible, the answer is no. I haven’t been myself the last few weeks, so a bright, cheerful piece about the sunniest of flowers probably will boost my spirits. Write it!”

“Listen, Edgar,” I said. “I’ve got nothing against sunflowers. On the contrary, I love them. I mean, they’re just adorable. Big and grinning, and their gangly stalks are so improbable. They’re like dogs that want nothing more than to please you, that know they’re goofy and would have it no other way.”

“So, what’s the problem, Neil?”

“Well, it’s just that I’ve written quite a few nature-related articles the last several years. I don’t want to overdo it, you know.”

“Overdo it? Neil, you can’t go wrong with nature. And I highly doubt if you have anything better to write about right now, anyway.”

“Oh yeah? Listen, Edgar, I’m planning to do a piece on the wonders of napping. I’ll explore its ins and outs: how I position my head just so on the living room sofa before nodding off, for instance. And how I awake 10 or 15 minutes later with glazed eyes, uncertain where the hell I am. Edgar, I’m one hundred percent certain that the readers of that article will be enthralled. My exciting revelations will have them panting for more.”

A few seconds passed. And then Edgar had this to say: “A short while ago I asked, ‘what the hell is wrong with you, Neil?’ And I was right on the money, because a better question hasn’t been posed anywhere in the world today! Napping? You’ve got to be kidding me! Listen up, haven’t I always strived to help you create agreeable product?”

“Yes, that’s very true, Edgar. I don’t know how you do it, but you whip my reportage into decent shape.”

“Thank you, Neil. Even though I’ll never figure you out, I have to admit that anybody who unashamedly uses a clunky word like reportage in conversation can’t be all bad. Okay then, I strongly recommend that you drop the napping idea and move on to sunflowers. Are we on the same page?”

We were.

Thus, during three walks in the latter half of July, in my neighborhood and in nearby towns, I kept an eagle eye out for sunflowers, and found about 15 homes on whose grounds they were displayed. Having strolled past hundreds of houses, though, I was a bit surprised by the low percentage that carried this form of joyful flora. But little matter. Every sunflower that I saw smiled at me. They truly were glad to see me, and the feeling was mutual.

But you know what? Despite the time I spent with real-life sunflowers, I have to admit that I much prefer a particular Vincent van Gogh sunflower painting over them. Vincent painted sunflowers a dozen times, and one of those oils hangs within the Philadelphia Museum Of Art, where I have passed hundreds of hours. (I’ve lived in Philadelphia or its suburbs for most of my adult life.) It very well might be the most popular art work in the museum. It certainly is one of mine.

Vase With Twelve Sunflowers, by Vincent van Gogh (image credit belongs to Philadelphia Museum Of Art and to vggallery.com

Vincent had the abilities to find the hearts and souls of his subjects, to bring his subjects alive in both traditional and unexpected ways. And he did exactly that when he painted the canvas in question in 1889. It is glorious and imbued with vigor. It has deep stories to tell. Sunflowers never have looked so good.

(My editor has been getting on my frigging nerves big-time. So, you know what? F*ck him! I won’t allow Edgar to edit this article. I’m going to press the Publish button right now. Please don’t be shy about adding your comments. Mucho gracias.)

Beautiful Indeed

Yeah, Another Blogger157 Comments

Well, I’ve been real tempted lately to pen an essay about the repressive, heads-up-their-asses people in my country who continue to believe in demagogic, riot-inciting Donald Trump and embrace his outrageous lies about the 2020 election having been stolen from him.

On the other hand, I haven’t been real tempted lately to have my blood pressure head into the stratosphere. So, I’ll stay calm by moving in my semi-natural direction. Towards the light, you dig. What follows, therefore, are a few words about beauty, a quality I found a couple of weeks ago in, among other things, a book, a song and some flowers. Away we go!

First up, the book: Local Girls is a collection of stories, by Alice Hoffman, about Gretel Samuelson and her small circle of relatives and friends. The stories are presented chronologically, and appeared in various publications before being gathered and published in one volume in 1999.

Not exactly a novel (some stories are narrated by Gretel, the others are in the third-person), but close enough, Local Girls follows Gretel from age 11 or 12 into her mid-20s. It’s set in suburban Long Island (which is near New York City), and is not the happiest of tales. Drug addiction and serious illness are among the book’s prime themes.

Nevertheless, drollness permeates the proceedings, partly by way of the sharp observations and bon mots of Gretel, her best friend Jill, Gretel’s mother Franny, and Gretel’s adult cousin Margot. Overall, Local Girls struck me as hard-as-nails realistic, despite the inclusion, unnecessary in my opinion, of some mystical occurrences. (Hoffman, I gather, is known for doing this in her works.) The book took me by the arm and then spoke intimately to me. It is damn well alive.

What got to me more than anything about Local Girls is the absolute beauty of much of its language. Time after time Hoffman took my breath away. Before ending this short discussion of Local Girls, I’ll leave you with three examples of Hoffman’s way with words.

It was a bad summer, and we all knew it. We liked to phrase it that way, as if what was happening was an aberration—a single season of pain and doubt—instead of all-out informing people that our lives were falling apart, plain and simple as pie.

She had been thinking about sorrow for so long she was amazed to hear the sound of love. What a foreign language it was. How odd to an ear unused to such things.

The streetlamps cast a heavy glow, the light of a dream you’re not quite finished waking from.

Yes, Hoffman has more than got the touch.

Now for the song: I’ve seen Brandi Carlile on a couple of TV shows and heard her music pretty often on the radio. I think she’s good but certainly not great. However, her recording Save A Part Of Yourself, is another matter. To me, it’s fab. The song, which Carlile co-wrote and sings lead on, was released in 2012.

Save Part Of Yourself concerns a love relationship that, though ended, has not been forgotten by one of its two parties. She hopes that her ex will not throw away memories of her. Such a lovely composition, so tender and imbued with longing. Yet, it also sparkles. That mandolin riff that enters five seconds into the tune, those handclaps, the joyful whoo-hoo-hoos. I for one cannot resist them.

Save Part Of Yourself’s main message, I think, is that remembrance can help us heal and make us better individuals. Who would argue with that? Here it is, following which we’ll turn our attention to flowers.

The day in which I am described as a knowledgeable identifier of flora isn’t about to arrive any time soon. Yeah, on a good day I’m able to look at a tulip and say, “Yup, that’s a tulip.” Ditto for a pine tree and a maple tree. But my scope doesn’t extend all too far beyond that. Still, that doesn’t stop me from going out to admire nature’s wonders. Hell, I’d be heartbroken if I couldn’t.

And I’m glad when my botanical expertise expands. Such as when I learned last month that a flowering plant I was gazing at during a visit to New Hope, Pennsylvania, a funky, former artists colony to which visitors often throng, was an example of a hydrangea bush. The plant impressed me. Thus, while walking and driving around my town a few days later I kept my eyes open for hydrangeas. And I found some, photographing two of them. Hydrangeas, I believe, were at the height of their flowering powers in my region (greater Philadelphia) at the time that I took these portraits. The flowers are sincerely beautiful.

(Please don’t be shy about adding your comments. Mucho gracias.)