A Tour of Country Flower Gardens was advertised in a small town near by. We ventured out.
There was fog. And then rain. All was gray. And the windshield wipers were speeding out of control, and making a malfunctioning clacking sound as I tried to see to drive. A strip of loose black rubber whipped wildly back and forth at the window.
I am in uncharted territory. My elderly parents are passengers sitting back silent, but peering out. Gravel roads wind off into all directions, and I don't know which way I'm going. The map got left at home. I am a dinosaur, I have no GPS on my flip phone. .
The tree lined road twists and turns , and thanks to the energy of the pandemic we're living in, we are in the midst of - the mist of Jurassic Park.
Then, the right road for us to take, appears out of the rainy fog. This was one of farm steads on the tour. But here's the unexpected. Where are the flowers? Plants maybe, scrags of growing things in a rusted manure spreader, and stems creeping out of an old claw foot bathtub…Roar!
No. My mother will not get out of the car to see if there's anything else. She has worked hard for the last several months, tending to her own flower garden. It's beautiful, and has just been made yard of the week in the local newspaper.
We determine to go back and look at her flowers, we had just needed to get out a little while.
We stopp at a rural cafe along the way. There we sit, six feet apart in hard seats, but alongside people with familiar faces - people from our home town. They speak to us, wearing masks, except when we eat. Pandemic or no, it is a comfort to be in the mist of people who greetus with a warm hello.
Duet. 32:2 "a small rain upon the tender herb..." at hollyhockjunction
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