It is supposed to get warm today, right now it is in the 60s. It rained all night. I have my plants all ready to move into the garage; I had put them on the rolling cart the other day. They may just find their way into the house. The fact of the matter is that they did.
The passion flower is going to have to be cut down as it is twining around the pergola. It still has more buds, so I may just undo it from the white over the head (for kids) trellis. I hate to lose a flower that might be. My mom always felt bad when she didn’t properly take care of her plants. In some respects, she had more feeling for them than she did for people. She dealt with parental abuse when younger, from the same people who treated me like royalty. That is somewhat ironic, when you think about it. My mom suffered from this verbal and sometimes even physical abuse from her parents by being a mom who took care of my physical needs, but had absolutely no idea about anything on the emotional level. With my father, who died when she was thirty-eight, she was seemingly able to open up. With the rest of us, not at all. Despite it all, she was a surprisingly good mother, taking her job very seriously. It is just that the emotional part just never even occurred to her. It was just something that couldn’t be.
Mary Kay once asked me if I remembered being read to…I have to say, not at all. I cannot recall a single person ever reading to me. I only remember learning to read and running with that, being in summer book clubs at the local library and throwing myself into fiction and fantasy. I majored in French and one of my graduate degrees is in French lit. I think it is interesting that to me, reading to kids and children was second nature. I guess that my life, provided for me by my mom, managed to free me from the demons frequenting her mind.