Wisteria is one of my all-time favorite viney things.


I love the fragrant purple bunches of grapey flowers, the graceful way they droop and hang.  The wisteria vines at Monet’s Giverny are thick with age, huge clumps of blossoms hanging and swaying over the bright green bridges.


When Doc and I were building The Briary, we had our shop behind the house put up first.  That way we were on site when the builders were, and we used the shop for storage (and lunch) and kept our garden tools there.  Whilst the men sawed and hammered, we planted and cleared.  One of the first things we put in behind our veggie plot  and walked garden was a lovely wisteria vine.

That was six years ago.  The first year we were rewarded with our tiny vine climbing halfway up the pine tree trunk.  The second year it wrapped itself and greened out gloriously and reached for the top.  My neighbors told me wisteria sometimes doesn’t flower until year 3.  I waited anxiously for my first sighting of purple.

Year Three came and went and still no blooms.  Ditto Year 4.  I confess I gave up.  Then I read an article somewhere saying they were prone to get root bound, and to cut into the earth around the roots, chopping them up, to stimulate growth.  I read the article to Doc and he obliged one hot and sweaty day. The wild wisteria that blooms effortlessly along our highways mocked me.

Year 5–no flowers.  I thought of the wisteria at The Parsonage in Oxford, wrapping itself up the building, one of my favorite places for High Tea, and how I’d tried bring a tiny bit of that memory to our home.  Theirs is lovely:


Last week Doc got the good news that his knee fx’s were healed.  PT is aggressive now, new machines being utilized, exercises increased, sitting in wheelchair time increased as his pelvic fx heals, too.  We are determined to get him walking normally, or as close to it as possible.  The news obviously put both of us in a good mood.  That evening when I was talking on the phone to a friend in Florida, I wandered to our front porch.  And looked toward the garden.  And saw this:


Whoops of hollering and delight abounded.  It’s not the Parsonage or Giverny, but we at least have a chance to get there.

I thought of persevering and the hard work Doc is doing to walk again.  I thought of how I’d given up on this plant until Nature showed me what it had in store for me.  I thought that although I’m not highly superstitious, just a tad, that this was The Big Guy’s way of showing me not to give up.  Ever.  And that this week’s news was the portent of Good Things to Come.

As evidenced by my blooming wisteria.