A walk in the garden

Saturday is sacred with husband Paul L. Schuetze and me.

We eat griddle cakes and sip fresh squeezed orange juice, both prepared by Paul, and dig into a mean grits casserole that I put together.

But, after much of the coffee is downed and the papers read, we throw on our hats, and with a final mug of coffee in our hands, head, not for the hills, but for our own seven acres.

To see what is blooming. What is growing. Each Saturday morning, there is something new.

I’ll keep you posted from time-to-time on what is going on.

Occasionally, Paul will surprise me with a project he has started. (One Saturday, it was a "tree house." Well, we call it that. He placed one of those portable pavilions on the edge of the glen that goes straight down into the woods, put lights and a fan in it. It is a peaceful and restful spot and protected in the summer from mosquitoes.)

On Saturday, our yard and garden was in full bloom. (Nothing fancy about our garden and, I must tell, you I simply do not know the names of all the plants. I just love them.)

The lawn is long and stretches back to the house. We allow the front part to go "wild" until all the natives have bloomed. (Something very disconcerting to the neighbors!)

This year, the pretty purple flowes with trumpet-like blossoms spouting from a stalk fill the front part as far as the eye can see.

Another thing we saw on Saturday that just thrilled me:

The pink phlox. A native that my neighbor, the late Vi Robbins, passed along to me. (There are some blooming in the yard she once tended, too.)

I planted two or three plants probably 10 to 15 years ago and look at it now! And still spreading, branching out, since I make no attempt to corral them.
Paul L. Schuetze/The Times