As some of you know Ken Cannon and I have a long, long, looooong history over the place of plant material in our lives. I think it should be everywhere--snaking up trees and trellises and spilling over fences and sidewalks. I want it all to GROW! GROW! GROW! While he wants it to fold its arms and sit quietly until it's called upon by the teacher.
But let me say this. Although the lavender has had an astonishing growing spurt this year--not unlike an eighth-grade boy who changes from a pipsqueak to a slouching hulk over the course of one summer--Ken has not registered a single complaint with me. Not one! Nor have I seen his trigger finger itch. He's sworn off the shears completely when it comes to my plants. To which I can only say this: No greater love hath a man . . .
So. Imagine my ENRAGEMENT when I found a snarky note from my mail carrier Saturday, telling me to cut back all the lavender or else he'll/she'll stop delivering the mail.
Okay. Fine. So they have to blaze a trail through the lavender to get to my mailbox everyday. Is that so hard really? I thought they were all about the rain and the sleet and the snow and so forth. But apparently not the lavender.
I spent the weekend fuming and writing angry little notes in my head that said TINKERTY-TONK, YOU GUYS! But in the end I got up this morning, cut back all the lavender and left it sitting in a heap.
Right below my mailbox.
(MEMO TO KEN CANNON: Thanks for not saying "I told you so." You're a better man than I. But then again, I'm not a man.)