A Paean For Peonies
Messy and beautiful, a little like life.
Sarah Hampson
Mark and I left to drive up to the Gaspe Peninsula in Quebec in late June, just at the moment when our peonies were blooming in our Chester garden. I knew that when we got back three weeks later, the glory of the peony bed that we planted last year would be over.
“Wait! One more thing!” I shrieked as he put the final items in our car for the road trip.
It was 6am in the morning, I should add. And although we go to bed early and rise as the sun starts to lighten the sky outside our window, which in the summer is at about 5:30am, I was a little groggy. There had been a busy run-up to departure, meeting deadlines and going to summer parties, so I was not as organized as I usually am. I was scrambling to remember things I wanted to bring, not having completely set out the items the night before.
“Peonies! I want to bring some peonies!”
The freshly-cut peonies I took from our Chester garden to Metis-sur-mer, and I was so glad I did as the sweet bouquet in the cottage was intoxicating for the first few days we were there.
“Why?” He was impatient to get going, not quite tapping his foot. I explained my reasoning over my shoulder as I set off to the southern end of the garden with scissors. I clipped a large bunch of blossoms that had newly opened. We have about ten peony plants (white, pinks and scarlet) in this garden next to a young magnolia tree, some purple lupins and a lilac tree that had decided not to bloom this year due to my over-eager pruning.
Mark was throwing me that barely-tolerant spousal look.