Where to buy flower bulbs : Florists funerals : Jennifer flowers.
Where To Buy Flower Bulbs
- (Flower bulb) A bulb is a short stem with fleshy leaves or leaf bases . The leaves often function as food storage organs during dormancy .
- bribe: make illegal payments to in exchange for favors or influence; "This judge can be bought"
- Procure the loyalty and support of (someone) by bribery
- Obtain in exchange for payment
- bargain: an advantageous purchase; "she got a bargain at the auction"; "the stock was a real buy at that price"
- obtain by purchase; acquire by means of a financial transaction; "The family purchased a new car"; "The conglomerate acquired a new company"; "She buys for the big department store"
- Pay someone to give up an ownership, interest, or share
Narcissus Ziva Paperwhites, 20 bulbs - 17+cm
This is the classic paperwhite, the fastest from bulb to bloom and the hands-down easiest. Nestle a few in bowls filled with pebbles on windowsills throughout the house to bathe your home in their sweet, musky scent. Start new pots every 10 days and you'll have fragrance to carry you through until spring flowers are blooming outdoors. Or use pretty bowls as your containers - antique, colored glass or whatever strikes your fancy - ones that are unique and charming. This bag of 20 big bulbs will provide flowers and fragrance for months. For gardeners in zones 8-10 these will scent your early spring garden wonderfully and add bobbing white, snippable blooms to your flowerbeds. Deer and rodent proof. Expect multiple flower stalks with 4 to 6 blooms on each. Typically flowers in 40-60 days indoors, in time to brighten the dull days of winter. Click on Image Gallery link above for a close up shot of the container.
The house was cute. Nothing more. Not grand or beautiful. Certainly not distinctive in its architecture. It was one of thousands built for veterans after the war, in the 1940s... small, square, practical, affordable, decent.
It had two bedrooms and one small bathroom. And a kitchen clearly built for small people. The first time she walked in, she felt too tall... like she'd stumbled into a dollhouse or something. The countertops were level with her thighs; she could easily see the space above the cupboards (ugh... dust, cobwebs, thick stringy greasy stuff...)... a space that, in most houses, only insects see.
Everything was grubby. The walls and ceilings were sticky yellow brown with old tobacco smoke. The carpet was stained, compressed in places, burnt in others, worn to just the underlying grid around the doorways. And it smelled like dog. Damp and musty. With an undertone of rotting flesh.
Outside, the garden had been left to go to nature. The little front lawn was scabby and dry. The hard packed clay in what had once been flower beds was punched through, here and there, by stiff determined thistles. There was even less going on in the back yard. Shaded by adjacent, taller houses it got almost zero light. And the only visible living thing back there (besides the bugs) was moss.
She didn't care. She was thrilled. Overjoyed. She thought this little house... with its bare dirt outside and dank, greasy doggy smelling inside... had potential.
For the next few weeks, between shifts at work, she scrubbed, polished, dug, planted, pruned, painted, freshened up.... wallpapered, hung curtains, built planters, scraped years of old dark goo out of cracks and corners.
While she did this, he was busy tearing down his studio. They were moving in together, starting fresh, moving forward... building something from the parts and scraps and pieces of their separate lives.
Her move was easy. She didn't have much. That's why she started on the house right away. While he took extra time, tearing down the studio he'd built in his basement and, component by component, setting it all up again in the little green garage in their shady new back yard.
She lived in the house by herself for a while. Loved it more and more every day. Baked. Bought a deep freeze and wrangled it into the back porch. Stocked it with meals and pies and cookies and breads and bags of fresh picked fruits and berries.
She claimed one bedroom for herself. Not to sleep there. But just to make use of the space. So it wasn't wasted.
On her suggestion, they kept their separate phone numbers. And separate phones. But only so his bandmates wouldn't interrupt her.
She worked nights. He worked days.
She wrote. He made music.
And when he finally moved in, a few months after her, the house was clean and bright; it smelled like fresh paint and baking; there were flowers in the window boxes and pretty tins along the space above the kitchen cupboards.
He wrote songs for her. She made soup. They were living together, and everything was fine.
Then one Saturday afternoon they were out together, doing errands. He got a haircut. They bought groceries. And then they were going to the hardware store.
It was Saturday afternoon. She didn't notice that at first. She'd been working nights, odd shifts, odd patterns, for a while and had lost track of dates.
When the fact of the Saturday afternoon got through to her, it deadened her. As if all her blood had, just then, stopped.
She looked around the parking lot where they were sitting, in his truck, in transition. Looked at the long chunky line of the strip mall... the people passing in and out the doors of the liquor store... the traffic idling, stop-starting and spewing fumes on the six-lane street... the old people... little withered Chinese men and white haired Indian women in saris... smelling fruit and testing the freshness of leafy greens with their practised fingers.
Suddenly it all felt so domestic. As if she'd become her parents. Doing errands on a Saturday. Planning dinner. Buying light bulbs. Going home to watch Hockey Night in Canada.
Suddenly the cab of the truck seemed small... claustrophobic, suffocating.
The glare of the sun outside on the asphalt hurt her head; her stomach dipped; she pushed the truck door open, thinking she would vomit.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
And at first she couldn't speak.
She just sat there, hanging out the open door, looking at the asphalt in the strip mall parking lot... thinking about the house... how small it was... the low counters, low ceilings... tile in the bathroom just about the colour of the yellow don't-park-here line on the ground next to where they sat.
"Nothing," she said.
"Let's go home, okay?"
And even though their bed was small, that night she managed to avoid letting her skin touch his at all.
The dahlias are here...the dahlias are here
The Swan Island Dahlia Festival in Canby is now in full swing. I managed to sneak up there a couple of weeks ago before the festival opened and had the whole fields to myself, even though there were only a few dozen flowers in bloom. A couple of days ago I got back out there and the difference was amazing. Much of the fields now are in bloom. Of all the flowers I photograph in this manner, I think dahlias are easily my favorite. They come in such a variety of colors and shapes and sizes, sometimes so different that you would have trouble believing that both flowers are actually dahlias.
The festival runs through the end of this month, and concludes with a large exhibition where you can see more dahlias on display and buy bulbs for your home. Considering the beauty of all the flowers and the fact that it is entirely free, and the drive out through Canby and the surrounding area is a pleasant one, I highly recommend getting out there.
where to buy flower bulbs
Tracy DiSabato-Aust has taught thousands of readers how to design and maintain their gardens. Her first book -- The Well-Tended Perennial Garden -- is Timber's best-selling title and widely considered the bible of perennial maintenance. 50 High-Impact, Low-Care Garden Plants is packed with useful tips, practical hints, and Tracy's own gardening experience. It is sure to find a place on the shelf and in the heart of every gardener. Tracy has identified 50 show-stopping plants that anyone can grow. Each selection is a dynamic choice for nearly every garden. Even better? All 50 plants have passed Tracy's test for toughness, beauty, and durability. These are Tracy's personal favorites, chosen after years of studying how to make beautiful outdoor spaces with a minimum of maintenance.
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