My love of unusual plants came from three women, my Gran, my Mamaw and Miss Robbie.

This post is about Miss Robbie’s son. She is the one who gave me the “Sacred Fig Tree.”

He was the missing man. We send him cards, now that his mother is gone.  He usually sent a response.

He was a loner. Very quiet, but always courteous and properly dressed.

The cards came back. Where had he gone?

I sent dear Mr. Flower to snoop around the homeplace.

It was empty. A neighbor said he fell in the street, months ago. He left in an ambulance.

He never returned.  Where was he?  I called the authorities.  No one knew anything.

I am not a relative, but since I was so upset, a nice person whispered some information.

I found him!

I called to make sure his only relative (age 94) knew where he was.  She did.

THE END.

Just kidding.

I heard his name on my answering machine yesterday.

The city wants to tear down his abandoned house. It has been ransacked.

Miss Robbie’s lovely home full of lamps and books and knickknacks and clothes and silverware…

These were someone’s belongings.   Someone old.   Someone alone.   Someone ill.

Now the house itself is being threatened.

My heart hurts.

I got no phone call today. I will call the nice lady tomorrow.

I am not a relative.  But I care.

Please don’t mention this to my mama.  She will have a fit.  I am waiting for some good news.

FLOWER

Sometimes the strangest things inspire prayer.

I had one of these moments while photographing this heron.

I saw it fishing, so I decided to wait in the cold, to catch a photo

of the heron catching a fish.

So I waited and waited, the wind began to blow, I waited.

My hands got cold, still I waited.

My feet began to numb, although I was not the one wading through the frigid water.

My nose got really cold…still no fish.

I began to be grateful that God had not made me a heron.

All that time standing in cold water to get its lunch…a cold fish.

Fowler