No More Arguing . . . Until Next Spring

When I was a kid, maybe 9 years old or so, I received a copy of Verna Pratt's Field Guide to Alaskan Wildflowers. I'd tramp through the woods in Haines, Alaska, collecting specimens of ferns and blossoms and grasses to take home, where I would carefully place them on paper toweling. I'd flip through the pages of my field guide until I found a matching picture of the forget-me-not or dogwood or chocolate lily, and copy its name onto the bottom edge of the paper towel. I'd cover each sample with another sheet of paper toweling, then gently lay the encased flowers between the pages of a heavy book to press them. I'm sure my mother's come across countless dried sprigs in her dictionary over the years.

The downside of my process is that I misidentified pushki. To my young eye, it matched the picture of Queen Ann's Lace, and to this day I automatically refer to cow parsnip as Queen Ann's Lace. On our evening strolls, I will argue with my husband until I'm blue in the face that no, that is not pushki, that is Queen Ann's Lace. He's right, of course, it is pushki, but I won't admit it. I kind of enjoy seeing him getting all worked up, as he provides example after example of how he knows without a doubt that IT'S PUSHKI. He tells me about the childhood battles he and his little buddies fought in the fields around Homer, Alaska, using stalks of pushki as swords. He reminds me that he received a degree in biology, which ought to count for something. He'll admit a similarity may exist between the two, but then point out the differences between pushki and Queen Ann's lace. Whatever.

I'd take this Queen Ann's Lace home to press, 

but I don't think I have a book that is big enough.

Also, it's kind of dead.

(And it's not Queen Ann's Lace, but you didn't hear it from me.)

Dinner last night: veggie pizza

Exactly one year ago:

Mr. Magoo Traverses the Nursery

Exactly two years ago:

In the Mullygrubs

Exactly three years ago:

Who Needs TV Anyway?

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