Money doesn’t grow on trees; it grows on irises

The house was eerily calm and quiet Friday after Brandon left for his brother’s house in Louisville. He and Aaron and couple other guys have played Big Band music for the Saturday Derby Day Marathon there for years. Our new custom furniture was to be delivered Saturday, giving me an easy excuse for not going.

Since we met, we’ve only been apart on a few occasions. There was the week I went to Vegas on business in 2005 and last October when my sister and I spent two nights in Chicago. Still, I’ve never been alone in our house without him. The silence became stultifying; even the cats wandered about aimlessly, confused by the big open furniture-less room and Brandon’s absence. I could hear the whir of the air conditioner, the whine of sirens from the street below. I realized I was bored. Utterly and completely bored. Brandon had been gone half an hour.

So, I went shopping. And on Saturday, I did more shopping, buying scads of hanging flowers to plant in containers and baskets and large terra cotta pots. If Brandon was a bit shocked at the sudden nursery in our front yard upon his arrival home, he didn’t show it. Still, I quickly reassured him I bought it all out of my savings, and not with our joint credit card.

I completely ignored the book I was to read yesterday and planted instead. Reaching around my irises for the potting soil, I spied something folded inside the leafy fronds. It was a $100 bill.

Who says gardening doesn’t pay?

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