How is it that when you are born, you can already look or not look like a name? Mike is about to become an uncle for the second time and there is debate about whether or not the baby will in the end be given the name they have had planned. Apparently during the last pregnancy a name was picked out and decided upon, but when his nephew was born, he looked more like another name. It seems like a) names have a funny way of choosing the person and b) once you are named you begin to develop characteristics which strangely start to "look" like your name. (And then there are the people who are inappropriately named; They are the people I wish would wear a name tag because they are the ones whose name just never sticks with me.)
I’ve found it’s a similar phenomenon with flowers; even though they have been familiarly named following years of observation and association, they are excellent examples of classification. Anne Shirley of Green Gables made the case for her “plainness” in blaming it on her name by quoting Shakespeare: “A rose by any other name would never smell as sweet.” (And then of course there was Shakespeare who must have felt something similar ;))
If there’s one thing I’m proud about in my garden this year, I would say it’s my morning glories.
I started them from seeds later then I should have, yet while everything else in my garden seems to have failed to flower, they have flourished. I would therefore recommend, (based on personal experience) that morning glories are an excellent seed to plant when you have poor drainage and rocky topsoil. Their perky blue and pink flowers have crept in and they are filling in the spaces where there are no other blooms to be found. It’s a pity they are only open in the morning.
Or is it? There is something decidedly magical about a flower that opens with the sun.