Incidentally, I've been reading a book about weeds (A Weed by Any Other Name, by Nancy Gift), wherein the author makes her case for weedy lawns. (Truth be told, I've never lived anywhere where there weren't weeds in the lawn.) She makes particular mention of our friends, the pimpernels-- and it seems that we share the same sentimentality for this little wildflower. All my whole childhood I've loved those little orange and purple faces! The blue ones, too! I've filled dozens of nosegay sized vases with their straggling stems! Still, it wasn't until the author began describing them, and her relationship with them, that I realized that my little orange flowers must be her pimpernels! A quick Google search confirmed my suspicions.
It's an interesting thing, knowing the proper name of a thing. I just feel better acquainted, more incorporated with my world, when I know how to address it properly. It feels like solving a trigonometric proof: orderly, confirmed, faithful.
On a tangential matter: There are two questions I don't love being asked. The first is "So, are you dating at all?" The second is, "What are you up to these days?" The reasons I don't love these questions is that they are usually asked by people who don't have any real interest in the answer, but are endeavoring to make small talk, and I regret that I have no socially satisfactory reply. In place of what I'm doing, I've begun telling people what I'm reading. What I'm actually doing is rather dull. I do dishes, I cook, I garden. The mechanics of it are not much to report on, and daily posts on Facebook about my chard would not, I am sure, be well received. So for those of you who have been wondering, "What is Rebecca really up to these days?" I've attached a photograph.
