Long ago and far away, before the casinos blocked the view of the most unattractive stretch of the Gulf of Mexico, I was an Air Force wife in Biloxi, Mississippi.
(Note to acquaintances of my daughter Jessica: when she tells you she was born on a "federal installation" it does not mean that I was incarcerated, only that she doesn't want to admit she was born in Biloxi).
I remember all variety of cheery little placards, posters, wall hangings and cross stitch samplers in the Base Exchange with the phrase "I bloom where I'm planted."
They always brought to mind a flat of 12 perfectly potted military wives ready for precision planting in front of a row of ornamental airmen.
I was obviously not very good at being a military wife or staying planted anywhere. Call it bad root structure or a passion for greener pastures; I got out of Western New York shortly after college graduation and Biloxi as soon as the Air Force would let us. San Antonio and Houston preceded St. Simons Island. We're heading over to Brunswick as soon as the house is sold and hope to be in Asheville by this time next year.
My goal for the coming year is to buy a summer cottage near Lake Erie where I caught fireflies in jars with my cousins just before it was time to go in. I miss my Western New York roots more with each separating decade.
As I was leaving for retail madness early this morning, I noticed that the lilies in driveway circle and one of the azaleas on the side of the house are blooming out of rhyme and reason.
Despite my indifference to landscaping and gardening, I had to smile. They are, no doubt, my plants.
We bloom where and when we damn well please.