It often happens when we go on vacation over Memorial Day weekend: the peonies wait and wait and wait with their tightly coiled buds until we are gone, then they open up splendidly and we miss half their show. It’s been years since we’ve gone away for Memorial Day, but the peonies sensed this, and did it again. Luckily, we caught them just at the start of their act, and there are more to come.
Peonies have long held a special place in my heart, from happy childhood memories, to happy wedding day remembrances, and their perfume instantly calms the heart and head. A couple of years ago I divided some decades-old clumps in our front yard, and they have come back in glorious form – the reward well-worth the back-ache.
There are about three different varieties here – I don’t know the names they were part of some White Flower Farm old-fashioned collection sent without individual labels. The older I get, the less concerned I am with logistics like names. It goes against everything I’ve ever known or espoused, and happily I just don’t care. When the sight is as sweet as this, and the scent as gorgeous, it’s the experience and the emotional resonance that matters, for after all what is in a name?
