Blooms Alexander Graham Bell Musem

Wild Flowers in the Valley

Snow capped mountains and flowers in the meadows at Yellowstone National Park and Lamar Valley.

The flowers in a summer meadow

are infinite

The big and the small, the colorful

and the plain,

The ones that bite and the ones

that delight . . .

All are intrinsically treasured for

part in the whole.

by Sandra E. McBride

(excerpt from Flowers in the Meadow)

Memories Mary Hillhouse Flower Garden

My mother, Mary Hillhouse is turning 90 years old in April.  Within the last 4 years, she has had hip and shoulder surgery and her planting days are gone.  She no longer can work in her yard and tend to her flowers.  Most of them are now gone due to the lack of love and care she showered on them for forty years.  Many of these flowers were from her mother's cuttings Eloise McArthur Hillhouse as well as friends through the years.  I didn't appreciate their splendor and beauty as I should have.  They are now memories of times past.  A time of country flower gardens that southern women like her and her mother and mother's mother generations loved to have in the spring living on the country roads of Cherokee County.  I am grateful I have photographs of those precious flowers that will forever linger in my memory of my mom.

The Scent of Flowers

Matthew 6:28-29                       
28 “And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin.  29 Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.

"A Fairy Song"

The Fairy Song

by Louise May Alcott (1832 - 1888)

The moonlight fades from flower and rose
And the stars dim one by one;
The tale is told, the song is sung,
And the Fairy feast is done.
The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers,
And sings to them, soft and low.
The early birds erelong will wake:
'T is time for the Elves to go.

O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass,
Unseen by mortal eye,
And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float
Through the quiet moonlit sky;--
For the stars' soft eyes alone may see,
And the flowers alone may know,
The feasts we hold, the tales we tell;
So't is time for the Elves to go.

From bird, and blossom, and bee,
We learn the lessons they teach;
And seek, by kindly deeds, to win
A loving friend in each.
And though unseen on earth we dwell,
Sweet voices whisper low,
And gentle hearts most joyously greet
The Elves where'er they go.

When next we meet in the Fairy dell,
May the silver moon's soft light
Shine then on faces gay as now,
And Elfin hearts as light.
Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky
With sunlight soon shall glow.
The morning star shall light us home:
Farewell! for the Elves must go.

"Graceful Counterfeit of Flowers"

Flowers In Winter:  Painted upon a Porte Livre

HOW strange to greet, this frosty morn, 

  In graceful counterfeit of flowers, 

These children of the meadows, born 

  Of sunshine and of showers! 

 

How well the conscious wood retains        

  The pictures of its flower-sown home, 

The lights and shades, the purple stains, 

  And golden hues of bloom! 

 

It was a happy thought to bring 

  To the dark season’s frost and rime          

This painted memory of spring, 

  This dream of summer-time. 

 

Our hearts are lighter for its sake, 

  Our fancy’s age renews its youth, 

And dim-remembered fictions take          

  The guise of present truth. 

 

A wizard of the Merrimac,— 

  So old ancestral legends say,— 

Could call green leaf and blossom back 

  To frosted stem and spray.          

 

The dry logs of the cottage wall, 

  Beneath his touch, put out their leaves; 

The clay-bound swallow, at his call, 

  Played round the icy eaves. 

 

The settler saw his oaken flail        

  Take bud, and bloom before his eyes; 

From frozen pools he saw the pale, 

  Sweet summer lilies rise. 

 

To their old homes, by man profaned, 

  Came the sad dryads, exiled long,        

And through their leafy tongues complained 

  Of household use and wrong. 

 

The beechen platter sprouted wild, 

  The pipkin wore its old-time green 

The cradle o’er the sleeping child        

  Became a leafy screen. 

 

Haply our gentle friend hath met, 

  While wandering in her sylvan quest, 

Haunting his native woodlands yet, 

  That Druid of the West;        

 

And, while the dew on leaf and flower 

  Glistened in moonlight clear and still, 

Learned the dusk wizard’s spell of power, 

  And caught his trick of skill. 

 

But welcome, be it new or old,         

  The gift which makes the day more bright, 

And paints, upon the ground of cold 

  And darkness, warmth and light! 

 

Without is neither gold nor green; 

  Within, for birds, the birch-logs sing;          

Yet, summer-like, we sit between 

  The autumn and the spring. 

 

The one, with bridal blush of rose, 

  And sweetest breath of woodland balm, 

And one whose matron lips unclose          

  In smiles of saintly calm. 

 

Fill soft and deep, O winter snow! 

  The sweet azalea’s oaken dells, 

And hide the bank where roses blow, 

  And swing the azure bells!        

 

O’erlay the amber violet’s leaves, 

  The purple aster’s brookside home, 

Guard all the flowers her pencil gives 

  A life beyond their bloom. 

 

And she, when spring comes round again        

  By greening slope and singing flood 

Shall wander, seeking, not in vain, 

  Her darlings of the wood.

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

Sea Flowers Lake Huron

 

These are some of the flowers growing wild at Wagener Park and private beach sites on Lake Huron, Michigan.

Georgian Country Flowers

 

Each year, I like to post pictures of Mary's flowers.  She is now 87 years old and still tries to nurture and care for flowers that were past down to her from her mother Eloise McArthur.  Some of these plants are over 100 years old.  I love the country charm of the old wooden fence and flowers growing out of concrete blocks.  The bottom picture will someday be a oil painting hanging on my bedroom wall.

Nature is What We See

The Azaleas live from year to year with only mother nature to nurture and care for them and they continue to thrive.  The one word to describe how I feel when my yard is full of blooms is "happy."

Nature is What We See
by Emily Dickinson

"Nature" is what we see--
The Hill--the Afternoon--
Squirrel--Eclipse--the Bumble bee--
Nay--Nature is Heaven--
Nature is what we hear--
The Bobolink--the Sea--
Thunder--the Cricket--
Nay--Nature is Harmony--
Nature is what we know--
Yet have no art to say--
So important Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.

"Hope Is the Thing With Flower Petals"

I wanted to start off 2015 with my beautiful Hibiscus flowers that grew in my container garden last fall.  I hope to see a rebirth this spring. I don't have a green thumb so they have to survive the crazy Florida weather from hot to cold and from thunderstorms to droughts.  I enjoy these flowers in the mornings when they opened their blooms and at night when they went to sleep.  They give me hope of a new day, a new beginning and peace in the evenings.  Emily Dickinson says "Hope Is The Thing With Feathers."  I say "Hope Is The Thing With Flower Petals."

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers
By Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)

"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without words
And never stops - at all

And sweetest - in the Gale- is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so any warm

I've heart it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb  - of me.

Snow Flowers of the Smoky Mountains

These flowers had endured a snow storm the week before.  Their white petals against brown stalks and white snow on the ground was something I had not seen before. Brush branches were white with ice cycles and there was still snow on the evergreen trees.