My sister found an old photo at Mom’s. I think those were my seventh grade glasses.
1961 or two, the builder was going to plant a single rhododendron in front of each new house on our street. Dad talked him into digging out six feet deep along the front of ours, replacing it with rhodo-friendly soil, and planting the whole length of it in Blue Peters, light purple with deep purple centers.
Years later, a housepainter climbed that brick half-wall to the left in front of the back door where it was laid in more a checkerboard pattern with staggered gaps. The guy stumbled, the bricks crumbled, and between them they sheared off nearly an entire big woody plant and a goodly part of another, too, if I remember right. (He was okay.)
Dad talked to his insurance and then called the local nursery, asking how much it would cost to replace a six foot Blue Peter.
There’s no such thing, he was told. Blue Peters don’t grow that high!
Dad: Mine do.
