After Joe and I purchased our house in 1992 — one month before Hurricane Andrew — we traveled to South Florida during December and February school recesses to get our yard-work fix.
The somedays were the conversations we had as we trimmed palms and imagined: “Someday, the pool will be here.” “Someday, there will be a hibiscus hedge.” “Someday, we’ll be able to get a bottle of water from our refrigerator and use our bathroom.”
My garden doesn’t need me.
Oh, it uses me — for watering and weeding and such — but it really doesn’t need me.
I’m always stunned when something sneaks up on me in the garden. Not a snake or a bear, but a plant. I mean, I walk around the garden daily — as I’m sure all of you do — and I like to think that I notice most of what’s happening among the plants.
And then this happens — a bloom that wasn’t there yesterday is here today.
Recently, I’ve written about my love for my bros — my bromeliads. Among my reasons is the ease of propagation, usually via pups that sprout along the base.
Here, though, is another propagation technique, courtesy of the pineapple — the sweetest bro.
The other day, as I was passing a local playground, I spotted a group of men who were able to throw together a random basketball, football, handball, any-kind-of-ball game without speaking any words to one another. There were some hand gestures and a few noises, and then the game began.