You may remember that I had a mature and established peony hedge in my old house. As is common in the neighborhood, these shrubs divided our yard and our neighbor’s. Slightly less common might have been my boys’ using it as hurtle, or maybe that is the role it played for generations, accustomed to the shush of the leaves as bare feet grazed its tops.
It was plentiful and generous and the blooms filled my home for weeks. Large bunches spilled from vases on the mantle; smaller handfuls cheered the morning cook.
Last fall, nearly winter, on perhaps the last possible weekend, I had a fit of peony separation anxiety and we filled the back of my car with young and tender shrubs.
They are so small and so spindly. I almost fear the day that they begin to bloom as the stems will surely give way, collapsing head first like a young girl in despair.
But we must start somewhere. So now we wait.
Images, all mine. The top three from the Dream House – the rest from the House with No Name.