yuck with flowers

Today I feel yucky. I think it all started last night when I was reading a highly improbable romance set in 1817. The book starts in India and moves to England. I, myself, am still on the ship with the main white character and her best friend, and native to India, handmaiden. The girls are 22 and unmarried because they’ve had so much fun being young and carefree. They are traveling to England because 4 years earlier the main character’s dad died and recently his two brothers were killed and thus the girl has inherited the title and property. The mom of this carefree, playful girl stayed in India and remarried two years after the death of her spouse, who moved his family to India 22 years earlier. He was a British government official. The girls’ clothing is entirely native, they were unable to get clothing made for them in British styles before leaving since no one made it. The two speak both Hindi and English fluently and often are found twirling around together in complete joy. The best friend is with the heiress because she is alone in India, except for a bunch of cousins. At the moment, the heiress has discovered a document stating her mother and stepfather have not only found her a chaperon while she’s getting acclimated to England, but they’ve also betrothed her to the stepfather’s son. I stopped reading to pick up a fun mystery because the girl is furious at being treated like a child and is wondering how to get out of it. I love fiction, I can wrap my head around a lot of crazy things, yet, this seems so unrealistic it annoys me. Little Bear, when I shared it with him, said it was ‘rewriting history one fiction story at a time.’ Strider was annoyed, too. But, he’s a history buff.

Meanwhile, I found a mystery series I missed when I was a kid. Penny Parker mysteries. They were written by the author who wrote Nancy Drew and I’m totally enjoying myself in this world of teens (although, I was annoyed when Penny said she didn’t ever want to be fat, cuz fat girls never had fun and the boy who wanted to play tennis with her was given the brush off cuz he had pimples. This, however, was how women were shaped by literature and later cinema. THAT was a totally fascinating read called: America’s Women: 400 years of Dolls, Drudges, Helpmates, and Heroines.)

I also managed to get outside and take more yard photos. I accidentally took a video with my new camera, too. (The buttons on the back are teeny and my finger slid onto the record button!) So, without further ado, Kris’ Oregon Yard in mid May. (there isn’t a video since I didn’t realise I had taken it until AFTER I loaded photos on the desktop.)

From top to bottom: My first iris are blooming, it has been YEARS since I’ve seen iris in bloom; a fun plant I was told is cut and come again, but I can’t find it by that name online; a super pretty petunia purchased in a pot and planted; a giant orange poppy not yet blooming; sweet woodruff herb; and a fun ‘plant’ that showed up. It is really a catnip and a CA poppy, but it looks like it is a single plant. Last of all is a lovely picture of one of my favorite flowers, a fuchsia.  The Craftsman thought it was a bleeding heart, which I would have liked, but not sure where I’d have put it.

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I think I’ll go read some more of Penny’s adventures or rest. Today my throat hurts like the dickens! Have a splendid weekend and share the colors you find!

8 thoughts on “yuck with flowers

  1. Ohhh yes, I remember reading Nancy Drew and then I progressed onto the Hardy Boys series. It became a tv series for a while but did not last. Funny how these books are welcomed the world over by readers in different countries. Love your potted plants and pretty flowers too. Have a restful Sunday.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I loved the Hardy Boys TV series, but then again, I was also a fan of Shaun Cassidy. I read more than watched, though. Oddly, the modernization of the books disturbed me. In the first book of the ‘new’ series, a GF of one of the friends was killed. I was so MAD. They lived for decades and then in one chapter of the first modern book, she dies.

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