Saturday, July 12, 2014

Queen Anne's Lace

By our front walk to the driveway there is a chest high, many flowers of Queen Anne's Lace.

Where I come from it is a weed. QAL is the Kudzu of Appalachia. It grow anywhere and everywhere and people try to beat it back like Dandelions--more so, actually, since where I come from people eat Dandelions and make wine from it. Dandelions are encouraged but Queen Anne's Lace is hated.

I knew Bern didn't plant it so I asked her about it tonight. She said it came up voluntarily and she let it grow. It's actually a very delicate and beautiful plant. I'm not sure why people hated it so much back in West Virginia. It has an unusual odor, granted, but up here in the heathen North East, I've seen it in bouquets of flowers as accoutrement. I approve of that.

Here's how hated Queen Anne's Lace was where I come from: in 4th grade, Charlie Harmon, who was (as we said back there in those non-politically correct times) "a tad techted" picked QAL for our teacher, Miss Harmon, no relation to Charlie in any way (who was tall and thin and a bitch of the first order) as he walked to school down the railroad tracks. Charlie was 2 grades behind already and just putting in his time until 16 and permission to quit school but he was a gentle, sweet 'techted' boy, not an angry, aggressive 'techted' boy--we had some of those.

Miss Taylor took those flowers when Charlie offered them and backhanded him with them in her fist though he weighted 80 pound more that her and could have squished her like a bug if he'd been 'angry techted' rather than 'sweet techted'.

"Don't give me weeds!" she yelled at him. (These were also the days teachers could backhand you and yell at you--I'm not sure they, in any way, were 'the good ol' days' people long for.)

I've decided to think of our substantial patch of Queen Anne's Lace as flowers, rather than weeds. I do like to look at them and they don't seem to have the same smell as they had back home. I've become a fan of Queen Anne's Lace.

What I ought to tell you about from the front yard is the Australian Poppy's--so small and delicate and with feathery leaves and yellow flowers. Nobody would backhand anyone with a fist full of those....

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some ponderings by an aging white man who is an Episcopal priest in Connecticut. Now retired but still working and still wondering what it all means...all of it.