|Volunteer poppy getting ready to bloom.|
I used to go to my grandmother's house every Thursday after school. My mother worked at a local insurance office, and that was the one night a week the agent stayed open late. I would walk over the hill from my grade school to her house where there was always a Tupperware container of homemade cookies waiting and my grandmother. Often, one of my great aunts Esther, Ruth, or Viola would be there with my grandmother, talking and crocheting, the smoke from their cigarettes curling up next to their cold glasses of beer. (I am from Wisconsin, after all.) I would sit down to listen, sneak extra cookies, and laugh at their stories.
My grandmother grew flowers and vegetables, and I always recall that along the beds that lined the walk to the garage full of daisies and poppies. Surely, there were other flowers, too, but those are the ones I remember most and fondly.
So, when these little beauties made their appearance in my garden, I was not about to give them the boot. I see them, and I think of all those afternoons so long ago and smile.