The continuing story of the morning glories...

Again, I blame Katriel.

Several years ago, when I had stopped by her house to pick her up for our daily work commute, I noticed some large, brilliantly colored flowers climbing a trellis alongside her house. Naturally, I investigated. 

They were morning glories. 

They were HUGE! The size of my hand! 

In my excitement, I may have embellished a bit to my husband. "They were the size of dinner plates," I exclaimed. (Small dinner plates, maybe. Saucers.)

Morning glories have a special place in my heart. My mom effortlessly grew morning glories in vibrant pinks, whites, blues and purples woven along the metal railings of our front steps when I was a little girl.

Knowing that I enjoy ADMIRING flowers but not actually GROWING them myself, Katriel carefully offered me some of her seeds. I eagerly snatched them up as this could be the beginning of the fulfillment of my floral fantasy to robe the entryway of our empty cow tunnel with vined flowers. 

Just as I'd hoped, Brad Mosiman toiled for hours, laboring to construct a large, narrow garden box, wrestling up a sturdy trellis, and digging a trough for me to daintily place each of my precious seeds...(Imagine an adorable winged fairy sprinkling pixie dust).

We diligently checked each day...only to be disappointed. Some straggly vines emerged but were confused about what they were supposed to do. We helpfully guided them into the trellis. And waited...

By the end of that summer, our efforts yielded ONE off-color white morning glory and a burning resentment for Katriel that would last through the winter.

But the Mosimans would not be deterred.

We researched and purchased our own seeds...buying a variety to hedge our bets. Katriel, obviously repentant, offered up some nutrient-rich fertilizer while Brad and I read the planting instructions carefully. "It says to soak the seeds," I reported dubiously. "Do you want a repeat of next year or do you want to change the destiny of your dinner-plate-sized flowers?" my husband snapped."

So we soaked them.

Then came the crushing blow that the endless current of Covid money would soon turn to a trickle so our poor little country had to find ways to spend it quickly...obviously, our cow tunnel had to go.

What?

We (Brad) carefully moved each baby morning glory sprout to its new destination beneath our tall pine tree. Our already low expectations grabbed a shovel to dig even deeper. 

And then...

A pink puckered rectum shyly pushed its way out between the throngs of vines and papery green leaves.

(I'm really hoping to win some sort of literary award for the poetic nuances of that sentence.)

I danced around the yard and then took a zillion pictures of it for posterity. My family, naturally, was thrilled. Katriel, I'm certain, was seething in envy.

Each morning brought new surprises. I dutifully sent up-dated pictures to California. My daughters and Douglas clamored for more. I considered starting a newsletter. Or alerting a news agency. Or maybe offering up guided tours for a nominal fee.

My initial goal was a solid screen of vined flowers. After last year, I'd adjusted my expectations to a more realistic two or three flowered appearances. But now...? "I want them to reach beyond the trellis," I told Brad, "I want them to run wild in the pine tree."

And they DID!

It was an amazing summer. More than I could have asked for. It checked all of my boxes:  

• Nostalgic warm fuzzies of my childhood. 
• A breath-taking backyard. 
• Revenge (Take THAT, Katriel!). 

Now...on to next year and our continued goal for gargantuan, dinner-plate-sized morning glories. Based on this year's success, I be-leaf that our dreams are firmly rooted in reality. Seriously, I'm not just sprouting off.