Across the road from my childhood home used to be an empty field. Oh how I loved to play there! Summer time would blanket it in Queen Anne’s Lace, and one day I picked my mother a bouquet. I thought she would appreciate these flowers as much as I did. They fascinated me, so many tiny little flowers making up the bloom with a single dark red one in the center like a 
spot of blood on a white hanky. When I presented them to my mother she scoffed, “Oh those are just weeds.” Her thoughtless remark broke my heart! How could she call such a botanical masterpiece a weed! Could something so pretty really be a weed? It amazes me to this day that we often think of some wildflowers as weeds. We can’t wait to mow them down. If we had just waited another day or two, we would have seen the beautiful gift of the bloom. This contrary thinking about wild flowers is probably why I haven’t mown my lawn in the last two weeks because the front and the back this year are completely covered in these delicate little flowers in various shades of lavender and mauve. I don’t know what their name is. They are attracting honey bees like crazy, so instead of getting out the mower, I got out my camera. Today I finally broke down and mowed the front so the neighbors wouldn’t hate me completely. But I left a little patch just for the bees.
April 3rd, 2010 at 8:41 pm
As a child (I think I was 4 or 5), I picked my grandmother a bouquet of weeds also. I thought they were beautiful and so did she (although my mom kept saying “they are just weeds”.). I am now 33 years old and I kid you not, those weeds have not moved from the top of my grandmother’s refrigerator. She displayed them in a vase and they are still in that very spot, covered in dust. Kinda gross, but also made a statement about how much she loved the thought!
April 3rd, 2010 at 9:42 pm
Wow, your comment makes me realize how wise grandmothers are. She obviously loves you very much!