What kind of idiot plants in a downpour, with thunder and lightening?
That would be me.
A late spring squall caught me Sunday afternoon, feverishly trying to get the last of my lobelia into the ground as I was pelted by raindrops the size of nickels, all the while hoping I wouldn’t be fried to a crispy critter. I counted the seconds between the flashes and the thunder. Six miles away.
Every year it seems I spend more money on fragile little annuals that I end up losing interest in as the summer progresses. I have petunias and lobelia, red alysum, stock and red tobacco, begonias and impatiens, dianthus and snapdragons. So pretty. E wanted chives, plus he picked out some strawberries for me. E hates strawberries. But he’ll get them for me. He also grows tomatos, which he also despises, for me.