|Zombie Liz 2|
|Could not visit Red Lobster until 1958.|
All very fascinating, as color history goes. But I have a problem with the color purple. The problem is specific to my garden. As in, why is it the only color out there? At the present moment the beds are a riot of lavender, magenta, puce (a combination of "puke" and "mucous"), violet, blackberry, and grape. Nothing blooms now if it isn't a shade of purple.
|Turkey seen out front.|
(When you choose certain characteristics in plants or animals, you necessarily leave others to chance. Check the hardiness of the hybrid rose or the intelligence of a Pekingese dog to verify this.)
So, without going all tree-huggy granola on you, dear reader, the truth is that we ended up with purple plants because nothing eats them. And it works in
|"What's all this purple stuff?"|
Which garden, as I write this, is a spectacular homage to the color purple.
I attach photos of today's garden in the text and below, so you can see for yourself. I wouldn't make this up.
It's an intriguing fact that some of these plants began life as cultivars of an
|Regular chives, not garlic.|
And I don't do myself any favors. I decided to break with tradition this year and get some of the ultra-
|Wave petunia plotting|
Maybe I'm royalty?
|Wave petunia in Toxic Neon Purple, a color|
never found in nature. We'll be watching
|A spiky type of salvia which I do not remember buying.|
This year I had the bright idea to plant over a hundred yellowy orange marigolds as an antidote to the purple. Unfortunately I've now realized that the purple and yellow-orange are nearly opposite each other on the color wheel, which means they'll make each other more vivid. When the marigolds take off it's going to be glaring out there.