It's the little things that mean a lot. Last weekend was our Victoria Day weekend, the Canadian long weekend near the end of May.
It is the traditional gardening weekend in Canada, or at least in the parts of Canada where I have lived. Despite the fact that many folks jump the gun, nurseries advise us to wait until that weekend for planting because any time before that we risk frost. Actually, we sometimes risk frost later, but that's about all of the patient biding of time that we can stand after a long winter and a slow-coming spring.
So it was that we found ourselves at the garden centre or two garden centres really.
In our family, I have taken care of perennials while Sue has been in charge of bedding plants and flower pots, of which we have many. And with my back gone all wonky, I hovered in the background of the nurseries while my lady picked out her plants.
She picked this one ↓ among many.
She liked it, but what was it? Neither she and the lady whom Sue had befriended (something Sue is good at) could bring it to mind.
That\s when myself piped up, "Verbena." They agreed, and I was inordinately pleased with myself.
You see, as I creep into my dotage, I increasingly find myself searching my vacant brain for words. I begin to say something to someone, but that blasted word eludes me. It's frustrating and a tad scary. I had never thought about it, but Ruth's recent post identified the phenomenon as "losing your nouns."
At this point in time, the nouns come back to me, usually before too long and often when I think of the object differently, but, nevertheless, it reminds me of my father to whom the sun and moon became the "big fella and the little guy." Or at least, we think that is what he meant.
So, coming up with the name, Verbena, when it eluded the two ladies was somewhat reassuring.