Deadheading

Before I left for Boston my garden greeted visitors with the cheery wave of hundreds of Shasta daisies bobbing in the breeze. On my return I was faced with a sea of dessicated flowers begging to be lopped, that they might bloom again. I never did get around to picking the armfuls of flowers before I left and now I am faced with snipping sad little yellow crowns before they spread their seeds. As I was out in front of the house I had random conversations with passers-by, a great way to spend time. The little old lady who walks round the block started picking seed heads out of my bin. She was after the wild sweet peas. I tried to explain that they were not edible and nor did they have scent, but this was hard as she speaks no English and I recognise nothing of her language. God I love trying to have effective non-verbal conversations with people who speak other languages. It is the ultimate test of common humanity. The mail lady came by and we talked about how many people grow gardens now and how nice it is that people make time for their yards now.
The lilies are glorious, but every one of them is poorly placed in the garden, so I shall have to dig up and move some in the fall.