Morning Glories and Memories

morning glories

morning glories

Some flowers are so beautiful they can stop you in your tracks. Morning glories do that to me.

I love morning glories, but I’ve never planted them here. They don’t care, though. Whenever we remove turf to make a new bed, old seeds are exposed to light, and then they germinate. If left to grow, those beautiful flowers will go to seed, and the cycle will repeat itself.

The deep purple one here grows along my veggie garden fence. I only find one each year, so it’s evidently not as aggressive a spreader as some morning glories.

Speaking of, the pure blue one also grows on the veggie fence. It also grows all over the place. If I dig a hole to put in a perennial, just enough soil is exposed for more seeds to germinate. When we cleared out overgrown lilacs, seeds sitting near the surface of the soil germinated. With this year’s torrential rains, grass is dying, and morning glories are sprouting. This blue morning glory is definitely an aggressive spreader.

Controlling it is a dilemma. I not only love the pops of color, but those blue morning glories are tied up in memories of my childhood.

At our little house on Indian Oak Road, blue morning glories grew over a trash-can holder. My Dad made the two-can wooden rack back in the days of all-metal trashcans with poorly fitting chained-on lids that clanged around in heavy wind.

I walked past that wooden structure every school day for years on the way to catch the bus. I helped pull the morning glories that threatened to invade the veggie. I pushed back the vines to remove and replace the lid when taking out trash. When the wind blew the lids off, the vines would seemingly cover the open can overnight, and we’d have to rip some vines just to put the lids back on. My Dad hated those morning glories, and they came back every year.

But I loved them, and memories are tied up in these little patches of blue, so I let a few grow.  Every day during the bloom season, for a few seconds at least, I’m transported back to being 13 years old, with the blind faith that I had the rest of my life to talk with my Daddy about silly things like morning glories and wind-blown trashcan lids.

*** This site is comprised solely of the opinions of its author, Stacey Morgan Smith. She works to promote gardening and tourism in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, from Roanoke to the Potomac River.***

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