It may seem like no big deal. It is to me.
The honeysuckles I planted last year, one commercial bought and the other of which I sprouted myself from cuttings, have begun to flower.
My dream of many years
For years I longed to have my own place for many reasons, one of which was to have my own honeysuckle plants. After I bought my house on Jupiter in 1987 I longed to plant and nourish my own honeysuckle so that in late springtime they’d flower – and produce my very favorite smell.
Things I miss from my early childhood in Tulsa, Oklahoma (since I don’t remember anything about my earliest childhood, spent in Puerto Rico): fireflies, cardinals, blue jays, and the smell of honeysuckle. Of course, on the first three of those I’m pretty screwed, unless I happen to be in the Midwest at the appropriate time of year. But honeysuckle thrives here in New Mexico – meaning at least I could get my yearly fix of their wonderful perfume
Just not at my house.
My early attempts at planting it met with failure. This mystified the nursery types, who assured me it grew like a weed. Yeah: a dead one.
But I began, with much help and some prompting from my good pal Larry, to study gardening a little more seriously. And so when I set about planting honeysuckle this time, the plants throve.
And this evening, when I went out to water them, I discovered they’d both begun producing strings of gold and white flowers. Not much smell as yet. It’ll come.
Yay! Hooray! A red-letter day! This is a milestone to me, the achievement of a longstanding desire. As my friend Saraphina pointed out on Twitter, I get to enjoy my first (personal) honeysuckle summer.
The honeysuckle happiness is helping to keep me going. I’ve not been keeping up here – apologies, O my loyal readers – because I’ve been crunching to met next Friday’s deadline on a novel. Fingers crossed, please. I am resolved to make it!
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