They say a picture’s worth a thousand words. I know what “they” mean in a Diane Arbus/David LaChapelle/Richard Avedon/Tim Hetherington-y sort of way, but in a “me” sort of way I find that with my camera in the shop it’s getting difficult to convince myself to say much of anything.
We had spring for just a millisecond in early May and then were given the bum’s rush into summer. The honeysuckle bush I stroll by on my way to train burst into a violent profusion of sweet-smelling blossoms in mid-May. Someone had written on the sidewalk in front of the bush “Try a blossom. Yummy!” in brightly colored chalk. I’m not one to ignore a directive when the word “yummy” is attached (which I’m sure will get me in trouble some day), so I did- popping a parchment-colored flower into my mouth. And it was- mellow, sweet, and green-flavored.
This plant eating thing goes back years for me. In elementary school we pulled the stamen out of honeysuckles and sucked the nectar from the tiny trumpets before tossing them on the ground. The first one I ever ate was white, not yellow, so it was a bit bitter and unpleasant, but I was undeterred. After that, it was a slippery slope to squash blossoms, marigolds, candied violets, and fresh herbs in salads. (Random but now that I reread this, “suck” and “stamen” sounded a lot less sleazy in my head. Wow.)
I dug my old Coolpix out and took it for a stroll the other day. I wish I’d done it sooner, because it’s now into June and the honeysuckle bush is bare of blossoms. The chalk writing is still there- and now it’s here, so that’s something. Very thoughtful of that random person to remind me of my childhood and how potent just a bit of writing can be.