... she bellow'd, CAM-PA-NOOO-LA GLOM-ER-AAAA-TA
That was the answer we got when my sister innocently said to a local nursery-woman, "Oh, that is pretty. What is it?"
We were both temporarily stunned to the point of speechlessness -- my sister who was standing closer to the woman, by the fact that the blast nearly blew her hair into the next county; me by the curiousness of it all, considering that I had just been wondering to myself how the woman could even breathe, given the way she was sucking on cigarette after cigarette while we browsed the gardens. Well, anyway, we both purchased some of the plants in question, and giggled all the way home about the shock of it all. My plants didn't make it through the first summer. Small wonder! That woman probably scared the life right out of them -- she nearly did ME in with that holler!
The nursery I mentioned has been sold to new owners, and last year I bought some more of those clustered bellflowers from them. I think they are very pretty, and love the contrast created by the orange pansies. I didn't even know what color the pansies would be when I put them there (lost the seed packet months ago).
DH just called with a "small" request. (I shudder to think what he'd consider a BIG request!) Seems I am to go out to the back of the barn and fetch a 10-foot metal gate that the cows managed to unhinge from it's moorings. Then I am to drag that sucker across the barnyard to the sheep pen and figure out a way to attach it there. No, no ... that's not all! After I get the gate up semi-securely, I am to round up 30-odd sheep from the four corners of the earth and trap them inside the now gated area. All of this so the sheep don't get wet. The shearer might be coming this afternoon, and wet wool is a problem.
Is it just me? Why do I feel like my life is a script from the old "I Love Lucy Show"? At times, that is. Other times, it's more of a horror show. Yesterday, I was informed by a dentist that I have something awful going on in my jaw. To cut to the chase and make a long story short (yeah, me! for once!), it seems like there's some evil organism eating my face from the inside out. (I didn't SAY I was not going to be dramatic, just brief.) The resolution to this problem will involve surgery. I don' know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no babies, Miz Scah-let ... I'll worry about THAT tomorrow. Right now, I have to play Rodeo Star before the sheep get wet, and there are thunderclouds on the horizon. Joy! Count it all joy.
Irises are looking very pretty this week in spite of the fact I've not had time to weed them yet.
FOOTNOTE TO RODEO REFERRED TO ABOVE: Wet sheep poop is verrrr-rr-y slippery.