54 minutes ago
Sunday, March 13
I love strawberries. I love everything about them: The leaves, the little flowers, the seeds a la Fibonacci, and of course, the taste.
When I lived in Arkansas, we lived on quite a bit of acreage, and on the banks of the creek that chuckled by the house, tens of thousands of wild strawberries grew. They were tiny, tiny berries, coming after yellow blossoms (the commercial berry and man-bred berry has a white one), and the taste is indescribable, except to say they were the "truest" strawberry flavor on earth.
I love a wild yard and houses set in the midst of it. Oh, not an unkempt city yard, but a natural yard, where nature wasn't scraped up by a bulldozer and remade in some cheap contractor's plastic vision of non-native plants set among swaths of sad lawn.
One place I lived was out in the country, up in the far Northwest, somewhat free of the idiotic regulations of town life -- somewhat. I didn't plant a lawn, much to the horror of my neighbors. I planted Dutch Clover, and never had to mow. My neighbors complained, sneered, threatened to contact "authorities," and then followed suit in "clovering" their land. I had creeping wintergreen all over, too. The dogs' feet smelled delicious after they were outside.
Here are some tags that might be pretty decorating your home. Thank you for stopping by. Click, look, click again for a closeup, and right-click to save. I was a bit messy on this set, and wasteful of ink, but I like the leeway in cutting them out.