Seems like a good enough title. I have a hard time with titles. These are my hollyhocks. For years, I tried planting hollyhocks. No success. Or so I thought. Little did I realize that the five fingered plant that I had chalked up as a weed and pulled up every year, was my hollyhock.
My fondest memory of these flowers is as a child. My dad loved what he called 'toilet flowers' - I'm not sure but I think my mom called them these because since they were so tall, they were often planted in front of outhouses. I know I've seen them in front of manure pits. And my dad would have experience with that growing up in the country and having outhouses and such. I don't think my mom liked them so much.
These days when my time with my dad grows small, I like to take special notice of the things that are special to him. Well, to my mom, too! I love that song by Jessica Andrews,
I am Rosemary's granddaughter,
a spitting-image of my father,
and when the day is done
my momma's still my biggest fan
It is amazing to me what sparks a memory. I written about it before - the light of the day, the scent of the woods, the way a dirt path winds its way through the woods, brings back in living color a previously lived moment.
And everytime I look at my toilet flowers, I will think of my dad.