WE LIKE PEONIES

I like peonies. I like the deep red ones that were in the back flowerbed when we bought the house. We wanted them in the front flowerbed, so we moved the plant. But we must have missed a little root, for now there is one at the back, and one at the front. We are keeping both. I like peonies.

I like the pink ones. We first got a root from John and Marie and planted it in our first Edmonton house. Then we started it again in the second Edmonton house. Now, in their fifth summer at the third Edmonton house, the pink peonies are smelling like Heaven and taking up more space than we gave them. They are growing through the railing on to the front steps. But we won’t cut them back yet. I like peonies.

I like the white ones. We first got the root from Peter and Marilyn. I was so impressed because they were standing up brave and straight, strong and luscious, smelling wonderful! We brought a piece of the root when we moved from our second Edmonton house. The flowers are standing brave and tall between the lilies. They are shading some lilies, maybe a little too much. Maybe we will move the lilies. I like the lilies, but I really like the peonies.

My father likes peonies. Two colours of them were standing in a vase on his kitchen table when we visited last weekend. “I thought I should pick them,” he said. “There are so many out there, so I took some to Nancy at the post office and Sandra at the farm.” I never knew he cared about peonies.

Mom used to grow the peonies. They would bloom in the yard on the farm in June. If there was a wedding or a spring tea she would arrange them in lavish bunches, garnished with leaves.

Sandra likes peonies. There are several colours in her garden, and there were more on her kitchen table, the earlier ones that Dad brought before hers came out.

It’s a thing in my family I guess—liking peonies.