The season of white flowers

We are having a bonanza of white flowers blooming lately.

At the moment, the most ubiquitous are the daisies. Honestly, these are some of my favorite flowers, so much so that I had them in my wedding bouquet.

This is dog fennel (Anthemis cotula). The flowers are similar to that of daisies, but they're smaller and the plant is stinkier (it's sometimes called "stinking chamomile"). Many years ago, my parents came to visit us, and my mother (who had a wonderful green thumb) was enchanted by the dog fennel and wanted to collects its seeds to plant at home. I warned her it would spread. She went home, looked it up, and agreed not to plant dog fennel.

Oceanspray. At our old place, it grew everywhere and was stunning when in bloom. Here we have far less, so every shrub is appreciated.

Elderberries. This particular (bush? tree?) is located on an embankment near the river. In the fall when the berries are ripe, the road-facing side is stripped bare and the river-facing side is left alone, because no one can reach the fruit.

Yarrow.

Mock orange (also called syringa), the state flower of Idaho.

White iris. We have a clump of these growing just inside our pasture fence.

Bind-weed, a type of wild morning glory.

The blackberries are in full bloom. I don't recall ever seeing this many full blossoms. We're going to be inundated with blackberries in late summer.

This is due in large part to the enormous number of bees and other pollinators busy at work.

And of course – though really, this is cheating – the seeds of dandelions. Hey, they're white.

With a few exceptions, there aren't a lot more flowers expected to bloom from here on out. Instead, the seeds and fruits are growing.

Yellow-flower season

Now that "cotton-candy season" (consisting of wild plum blossoms) has come and gone, we're now in the midst of "yellow-flower season." We have yellow flowers blooming everywhere.

The most noticeable are arrow-leaf balsamroot, a large and showy flower that favors sunny south-facing slopes with shallow soil.

This time of year, they light up hillsides all over the place.

If you peer closely, you can see the balsamroot blanketing this hillside.

A field of mustard, planted as a nitrogen-fixing cover crop.

This is Oregon grape. As the name implies, the plants produce tart (almost to the point of being inedible) grape-like clusters of fruit in the fall.

This is nine-leaf biscuitroot. They can be found scattered all over roadsides and sunny slopes.

These, too, can blanket hillsides.

The beloved daffodils. Often these escape from gardens, so to speak, and grow wild.

Dogtooth violets, also called glacier lilies. These are all over shady sections of our pasture, and are among the first flowers to bloom in the spring.

I'm not quite certain what this is. I photographed it hastily from the window of the car, so I wasn't able to examine it closely. It might be false lupine. If anyone knows, please chime in.

Another unknown flower, also photographed from the car window.

This time of year, tulips are on display in many yards.

And, of course, who can ignore the ubiquitous dandelion.

 

Next up in the blooming cycle are apple blossoms. Stand by!

A beautiful surprise

I came in from cleaning the barn yesterday afternoon, and Don told me I had received a package. And not just any package – it was a box from 1-800-FLOWERS.

Cue the absolute shock. Who on earth was sending me flowers?

Inside the box, the bouquet and vase were packed with meticulous care. There was also a note on the lid.

The note read, "Congratulations on 'An Amish Marriage Agreement' making the NYT list, Patrice!" – and it was signed by both my senior editor and  the Executive Editor of the Love Inspired/Love Inspired Suspense line.

Yowza.

Took me totally by surprise. What a lovely gesture and a lovely gift.

I tell ya, Harlequin is a classy organization. I'm so grateful to write for them.

Going to seed

This time of year, everything is going to seed.

I was walking Mr. Darcy yesterday evening just as the sun was setting, and noticing just how many flowering plants were putting out their seeds.

The seeds of the Canadian thistle were so thick, they were getting trapped in some rose leaves.

This is salsify. The large seed heads look like dandelions on steroids.

A close-up of the seed head reveals why these "clocks" are so efficient at being caught and spread by the wind.

This mechanism spreads not just native seeds, of course, but also invasive seeds for such plants as Canadian thistle. Such is the blessing – and bane – of nature.

Signs of spring

Despite being in the middle of a chilly spell (windy, scattered rain, high of 50F), spring is indisputably here. One of the surest signs is the blossoming of the arrow-leaf balsamroot.

These large, showy blooms prefer shallow soil and sunny south-facing slopes. During this time of year, they positively carpet meadows and light up distant hillsides with color.

Another sign is deer. They're everywhere. I mean, deer are always "everywhere" here, but this time of year they're more "everywhere" than usual, if you know what I mean.

No fawns yet, though. It's too early for that.

the oak trees are starting to bud.

But the surest sign of spring? Turkeys.

Yes, the toms are strutting, and you never saw a more puffed-up crowd of self-absorbed grandees than these boys. I mean, they know they're hot stuff.

They always look so affronted when interrupted, glaring at you before closing down their feathers and slinking away.

I caught this fellow displaying below our deck. I was trying to sneak up without him noticing.

He may have noticed me, but he had better things to do. There were ladies present.

The ladies, however, didn't seem overly impressed. (They never do.) They soon wandered off, with our boy trotting in their wake.

Undeterred, he followed them down to the road and commenced displaying again. I admired his persistence.

Despite my poking fun at the toms, and however indifferent the hens may seem, evidently it works. You can bet we'll have lots and lots of baby turkeys trotting around in a few weeks.

Ah, spring.