Reality to me is whatever I can wrap my hands around and nurture. Dirty nasty things that with a bit of tender loving care, become a gift that makes you sigh.

Last week there was a box on the doorstep. It smelt musty and had almost nothing on the box identifying it as iris rhizomes, (in Greek, meaning "root stalk") bought for the iris bed in the back garden. I resorted to mail order after our local nursery had almost no Iris rhizomes, and what they had were half dead. But lets be honest. I took this photo above when the rhizomes arrived, and they all look half dead!

The iris's long lost sister, is ginger, another rhizome. It is always plump and pink, almost shouting, peel me, add me to something that you love. I always expect Irises to look like ginger. When they arrive looking dried and shriveled, I feel a bit disappointed.

The iris are planted. The iris bed is becoming full with stunning examples of reality for me. When I was a small girl, I would walk to my grandmothers house. Fall would be setting in and her iris blooms , spent, left lovely green stalks of foliage. She and I would sit in the garden, braiding hundreds of Iris stalks. Gran believed that cutting the healthy green stalk to early would damage the fruit of the plant. We braided each and every iris, and the stray tulip leaves also.

Then we would go inside her sweet cottage. (a stout cottage, built in Pittsburgh,in the '40's) Taking my shoes off at the door, my toes would wriggle on the braided rug, while she would get me a glass of juice and a cookie. I remember the last time that I braided with my Gran, I was 5 years old.

Soon, when the foliage in the iris bed starts to brown, I will braid. Sitting for hours in the garden, and then, I will come inside, pour a glass of juice and smile.

Love you.

Me