Every time the pink chrysanthemum blooms it reminds me of my Opa.
Not that he’d be very impressed by my specimen, a descendant of those he held in such high esteem, as it’s leggy, woody, ragged appearance is testimony to it’s haphazard tending. Basically, the flowers on the Homestead have to look after themselves.
Today, however, it seemed fitting the words chosen by The Renovator to go with his dukkah and flatbread morning tea treat should be propped up up by the memory of one who did his fair share of propping me up when following my heart had drawn some flack.
This week we made the momentous decision to homeschool Farm Girl. There are many reasons behind our decision, all well debated, discussed and weighed up, and at the end of it feels right in our collective heart.
I’m pretty sure Opa would say something along the lines of Eleanor’s were he here. He’d probably add a growled, “jawel, for how’s it their business?” for good measure, but one thing’s for sure: there’d be no talk of hearts and feelings. While he was always there and on your side, he left the purple prose speaking to his flowers.