It’s an utter disgrace to be the wife of a farmer and not have a green thumb.

(If I’d written this a decade ago, when moo cows were still a-plenty around here, that would have been an “udder disgrace.” I may stink at gardening, but I can pluck a pun from miles away.)

Nevertheless, we keep trying.

Last year, we planted three Black-Eyed Susan plants.

One survived.

“That’s one in three,” Farmer Gary remarked recently. He’s too nice a guy to state anything other than mathematical facts.

Above is 2021’s surviving Black-Eyed Susan plant, guarded by a bit of yard-art sent by cousin Suzanne (or “Suzanny” as grandson Cameron calls her).

And here’s how my Lazy Susan looks this year (I usually get the “Susan” part right, the rest is touch and go):

Upon reading up on how to keep this Black-Eyed Susan plant flourishing for at least another few years, I see that “deadheading” is imperative. I now know this removal of faded flowers is something to do for far more than just Scarlet Begonias (that’s a pathetic bit of Grateful Dead humor).

It turns out Mom, in her love of nature, had a poetic appreciation of Black-Eyed Susan blossoms:

floor show

sister to sunflowers
the black-eyed susans
wink in the spotlight
of the garden restaurant
the cosmos swing like
leggy chorus girls
the chinese lanterns
glow like goddesses

~ joan vayo, September 14, 1993

I can just picture Mom and Dad out to dinner, as a new poem started pollinating in her brain. Maybe they ordered their coffee and dessert “to go,” so she could hurry home to capture her thoughts on paper.

“floor show” © 1993 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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