Favorite Flower of the Week Award

I grow my fair share of new varieties. Some of these plants really do live up to all their press, and others, well, they don't. But as I was sipping lemonade this weekend and surveying my domain from under the shade of a decrepit maple tree, it was not a new variety that caught, and held, my attention.

It was the hollyhocks.

I don't think it was the appearance of the flowers that captivated me so much as the way those flowers made me feel when I looked at them. In that moment, those simple pink and red and white discs captured the essence of why I garden: In them I felt, rather than saw, beauty and warmth and hope and home.

But I have no idea why.

I don't remember anyone in particular growing them in my youth, though I'm sure I must have come across them somewhere in my little hometown. (My grandfather, the resident gardener, was more into the practicalities of vegetables -- although he did tend a rose bush or two.) Maybe it was the neighbor lady who grew them; the one who always gave our family Long Johns at Christmastime (so fresh, the brown paper bag felt warm when she placed it in my hand). It could have been the proprietor of the tiny neighborhood grocery where my older brother and I would go for Pushups and Dreamsicles and bottles of soda dragged through a maze of icy water. Or maybe there were hollyhocks lining the outskirts of the parking lot where the village showed outdoor movies on the wall of the town's only bank building during dry, dusty summer evenings.

I don't really recall.

I do know that in a few weeks the hollyhocks, or at least the foliage, will succumb to rust, leaf spot and/or anthracnose. Spider mites and Japanese beetle will have their way with them. Perhaps then my bubble will burst.

But for now, I like where I am when I look at these plants. And for that, there should be a garden award.