Growing up, the backyard garden was the event of the summer. We all leant a hand, though you could make a strong case that I did not lend a hand while the rest of the family grew third and fourth hands. This wasn't just a patch of cultivated dirt outside the back door; it was nearly a quarter of an acre requiring a tractor and hours upon hours of tending. It also yielded a lot of vegetables. A lot.
In addition to vegetables, my dad planted zinnias. Of course, not just a few, but oodles. The house would brim with tightly-packed vases of the brightly colored flowers during late summer and well into early fall. They are the most concentrated, saturated, colorful blooms. Definitely my favorite flower.
So I tried to grow some at the lake. I had envisioned my own vases scattered throughout the little house, overflowing with brilliant petals and deep green leafy stems. Got a tad ahead of myself. Needless to say, I was happily surprised when the seeds emerged from the dirt, grew into stems, developed tiny buds, then actually blossomed into flowers. 3 of them. So I shoved my happy little treasures into the smallest vase-like receptacle I could find. It's not brimming like it did in my fantasy, but it is the perfect reminder of home, both the one I grew up in and the one I have now.
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