Showing posts with label flowers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flowers. Show all posts

Friday, September 8, 2023

Meaning of Flowers by J. S. Marlo

 


Seasoned Hearts
"Love & Sacrifice #1"
is now available  
click here 



 
 

  

I was having lunch with a friend, and I was telling her I needed to weed my flowerbeds. She asked what kind of flowers I grew. My answer: pretty flowers?

I know the names of some flowers, like roses, tulips, daffodil, poppies, petunias, lilies... but I don't really pay attention to their names. I choose my flowers according to colours, shapes, and scents. She proceeded to tell me flowers have meanings. I knew red roses meant love, but for the rest, I wasn't too sure, so I did some research... in case I decide to add those kind of details in a future story.


When deciphering the meaning of a flower, its colour is as important as the flower itself.

Red: Red flowers are the most popular to send to someone. They represent love, passion, and affection.

Pink: Pink flowers are sent to friends or love interest. They represent femininity and playfulness.

Yellow: Yellow flowers are sent to brighten a home or cheer up a friend. They represent joy, happiness, and friendship.

White: White flowers are sent to someone who's getting married or welcomed a baby. They represent purity, humility, and innocence.


Here are the flowers to send according to the occasion or the meaning you would like to convey.

Love: red roses, red tulips, red carnations, dahlias.

Friendship: yellow roses, freesias, alstroemeria, chrysanthemums.

Gratitude: pink roses, hydrangeas, sweet peas, irises.

Sympathy: white roses, lilies, orchids, poppies.

Celebration: peonies, lisianthuses, daffodils, calla lilies.


My two favorite are lavender and lilac. Both for their colours and their scents, but not their meanings.

Lavender means distrust and Lilac means joy of youth.

There are also birth flowers, like there are birthstones. I was born in September. According to the chart, my birth flower is Morning Glory. Well, that's interesting because I'm anything but glorious in the morning.

I'll go weed my flowerbeds one last time before the frost kills all my flowers. Take Care & Happy Reading!

J. S.

Tuesday, January 31, 2023

Butterflies from my window by Priscilla Brown

 

  
 

 The window next to my desk overlooks a veronica (hebe) bush in the garden border. This flowers almost year-round, and is popular with bees. However, today there are no bees, but there is a pretty butterfly I haven't seen before hovering around the blossom. Interested in the newcomer, I switch from the document I'm working on, and check the internet hoping to discover its name.

 I am disappointed to learn that it is a common brown. Apparently it is 'common'  in south-east Australia, which is roughly where I live, though my area might be too far north for its usual habitat.. Perhaps it is looking for new digs. I do feel that whoever names these attractive creatures might show more imagination.

 For a couple of my contemporary romance novels, I needed to research butterflies. I always enjoy research, but sometimes I have to make myself stop. There's a need to compromise, perhaps to be less precise, making sure the information I'm using is essential to the narrative.  In Where the Heart is, Cristina describes the butterflies in Cameron’s sub-tropical Caribbean garden as ‘neon-clothed’. For Silver Linings,  I found out far more than the story needed about butterflies in the Amazon area, fascinating but I am not writing a guidebook!

And now, my garden butterfly has moved on, two bees are circling the veronica bush, and I  must temporarily give up watching nature and get some work done!

Enjoy your reading, and best wishes from contemporary romance author Priscilla.


https://bwlpublishing.ca

https://priscillabrownauthor.com


Sunday, May 8, 2022

Happy Mother's Day by J.S. Marlo

 

Seasoned Hearts
"Love & Sacrifice #1"
is now available  
click here 

 

 
The Red Quilt 
"a sweet & uplifting holiday story"
click here 

  



Today is Mother's Day!


When my kids were young, they drew cards, made me a gift, a cake, and breakfast in bed (sometimes with their dad's help). I still get cards and gifts, but nowadays, it's my granddaughter's drawings that end up on my fridge, not my kids' cards.

According to RetailMeNot, these are the Top Six Mother's Day Gifts for 2022:


- flowers: 47%

- chocolate: 36%

- gift cards: 29%

- dinner: 26%

- jewelry: 22%

- beauty products: 19%


I think books and wine should have been somewhere in there LOL


And here are my Top Three:

- hugs & kisses

- phone call

- family dinner


Did you know that more phone calls are made on Mother’s Day than any other day of the year? These holiday chats with Mom often cause phone traffic to spike by as much as 37 percent. 



To all the mothers out there, Happy Mother's Day!!!


Now I'll go call my mom.

Have a wonderful day and stay safe!

JS

 



 
 

Monday, June 14, 2021

Say it with flowers...by Sheila Claydon




Weather-wise, I don't know what the winter of 2020/21 was like in the rest of the world, but in the UK it was cold and wet, and the dreariness dragged on into spring. When the sun should at least have been trying to shine it stayed tucked away behind a blanket of grey cloud, and the rain kept on falling. The outcome, where I live on the northwest coast, was overflowing ponds, puddles everywhere, and, as the weather warmed slightly, lush grass and greenery. No flowers though. Everything was waiting for the sun to break through. Then it did, and my goodness the wait was worth it.

Too eager to show off, many of the plants burst into bloom before their time so that late winter, spring and the beginning of summer plants have been fighting for space all at once. And the growth is like nothing I've ever seen. Everything has doubled in size thanks to all that winter rain so that gardens are full to overflowing with colour and foliage. 

Waking up in the morning and stepping outside into all that beauty and colour makes every minute of the day worth living. Memories of that long winter are fading fast as another and then another plant bursts into bloom. And eating lunch outside under a pergola drooping with roses and honeysuckle, or drinking coffee in our tiny courtyard where the dramatic leaves of hosta provide a backdrop to pansies, pinks, and campanula is an absolute joy. 

In case you haven't realised it yet, I love flowers! My mother was a florist, which probably accounts for some of it at least, and my book Bouquet of Thorns pulls everything together. I know how to care for flowers because she showed me. I know how florists work because I watched her. And when I married I discovered that my mother-in-law was not only a keen gardener but someone who wanted to share her expertise and knowledge, so my garden now pays tribute to both of them. It has flowers that were originally cuttings from my grandmother's garden, there are plants my mother-in-law bought, planted for me and showed me how to care for, and the tubs and displays, while not as beautiful as the ones my mother would have planted, are as close as I can get. 

In Bouquet of Thorns, Sarah is trying to establish her own flower shop. Unfortunately she also has to manage her brother's run down wine bar when he is awarded a travelling scholarship. Working long hours, using the profits from her own business to prop up the wine bar, and trying to pacify her disgruntled boyfriend, she is too tired to think straight as she lurches from one catastrophe to the next. And even worse is the fact that Sean Marlow, with his Viking warrior beard and piercing blue eyes, always seems to be at the bottom of them.

It's a story about love amongst the flowers. What could be better?












Monday, December 14, 2020

Flowers to Remember Christmas...by Sheila Claydon


The cover of the latest edition, published by Books We Love 



A second edition ebook published by another publisher no longer operating

The original cover when the book was one of 2 full length stories published together


In recent blogs I have written about how the covers of some of my books have changed over the years as new editions have been published. How, too, I have transitioned from using the pseudonym Anne Beverley to my own name of Sheila Claydon, and how this also affected the publication. (see above) 

Today I am blogging about the third of these vintage books, Bouquet of Thorns, and I have chosen this one  because of the flowers and because it is almost Christmas. My mother was a very talented florist and because florists are always very busy in the festive season, I sometimes got to help her in those long ago  Christmases. Although I was given the unskilled jobs such as sweeping floor and filling vases with water, occasionally far more exciting things happened, and these are the seasonal memories I cherish. 

I was born and raised in Southampton, England, which is a coastal city with a port used by liners from across the world.  Nowadays it is the busiest cruise terminal and the second largest container port in the UK. In those far distant days, however, when cruises were only for the very wealthy, people would spend days and weeks aboard ship travelling to places such as South Africa and America, instead of flying as most do today. And that was how, from quite a young age, I was able to accompany my mum when she went on board what were then some of the most modern liners in the world, to decorate the state rooms, the various lounge and dining areas, the ball rooms and other communal places, and deliver personal bouquets to individual cabins. Sometimes I even got to do the personal deliveries myself...not exactly knocking on the cabin door and handing over the flowers, but taking them to the correct deck and searching out the bedroom steward who would then take charge of them.

Walking up the gangway carrying a bouquet of flowers or a box of plants made me feel very important but even better was going down to the galley to see the chefs at work, and then being served a meal that was far more exotic than anything I got at home because it was in the days before we all began to adopt the dishes of other countries and cultures. I would often be given chocolate, cakes and fruit to take home too. I  tasted my first Hershey bar courtesy of a steward on an American liner, long before they were sold in the UK. Pineapple too, and mango. And many other things that are available most places now but which weren't then.

So Bouquet of Thorns not only reminds me of those far off Christmases, it also reminds me of my mum, and every word written about the flowers and the floral displays in the book comes from that. Helping her taught me a lot, and it's thanks to her that I know how to care for cut flowers, how to revitalise them when they start to droop, and how best to display them. I know the best way to pot up plants too, and care for those, and, like my mum, that has tipped over into loving and caring for garden plants as well. So although those visits to the vast and glossy liners in the port of Southampton are long past, I still remember how it felt to be accepted by the crew and, probably because I was young, given so many treats. To this day I still remember most of the things my mum taught me about flowers, the same as I remember the joy of those Christmases past.

If you like flowers too, then you can find a snippet from Bouquet of Thorns on my Website.

Happy Christmas and I hope you are able to make some happy memories that stay with you, even in these difficult times.




Sunday, September 6, 2020

Flowers, Past and Present by Eileen O'Finlan


I love flowers. I love them so much, I turned my front yard into a garden. I had a white picket fence with an arch installed and a landscaper design and plant perennials inside and outside of the fence. I gave him free reign with only a few non-negotiables. He had to include roses that climb the fence, honeysuckle that will wind its way over the arch, plants that will blossom at different times from spring through late fall so that something is always in bloom, and lots of color. Oh, and low maintenance. That was important because I have health issues and not nearly enough time to keep up with a garden. I'm so glad I insisted on that last point. While I've always loved working in the garden, the advance of ankylosing spondylitis has put an abrupt end to that endeavor. Fortunately, I have a neighbor who has been doing an amazing job at keeping my front yard garden in great shape. Thank you, Wendy!

In Erin's Children, my forthcoming sequel to Kelegeen, readers will meet two characters who love flowers even more than I do. Pamela and Deborah Claprood are the daughters of the family for whom Meg O'Connor works as a domestic servant. Their love of flowers leads them to set up a conservatory in the back parlor where they can indulge not only their love of gardening all year, but also engage more fully in their favorite past time – the language of flowers. 

Known as floriography, the language of flowers has been around for thousands of years but was especially popular during the Victorian era. Each flower has a meaning. It was all the rage to send one another messages through flowers, but it only worked if you were conversant in the language. Pamela and Deborah are fluent. Meg, on the other hand, being practical as ever, thinks it's ridiculous. “If you have something to say, just say it” is her opinion.

I wonder what the Claprood girls would think of my garden. Could they use cuttings from my garden to send messages? What, indeed, does my garden say?





Monday, June 8, 2020

Green thumb? by J. S. Marlo



Many years ago, my daughter asked me to take care of her cactus while she was away for three months. Her only advice was "try to remember to water it a few times before I get back". Well, by the time she returned, it was dead. I truly believe it takes special talent to kill a cactus.


That being said, I love flowers, specially lilacs and lavender. I tried growing lavender...it followed the cactus into the compost bin, but I have five lilac trees around the house that grow four different varieties of flowers from deep purple to pale pink. I started with six trees but one befriended the cactus. Lilacs are low maintenance and hardy, the first quality suits me and the second the  northern area where I live.

Every year I plant some annual flowers and tomatoes. This year, finding flowers or soil was a challenge. With the quarantine and social distancing, it seems everyone decided to start gardening. I still got a few plants but I lost half my tomato plants two weeks ago after they froze to death. My fault...I should have put a blanket over them instead of ignoring the risk of frost warning.


Though not all perennials survive  minus 40 degrees winter or our short growing season, I managed after many failed attempts to find a rose bush that comes back to life every spring. It has pretty red roses and right now it's budding.

I tried planting tulip bulbs, but no matter how many I bury in the fall, only one tulip grows every spring. This year my lone tulip is yellow with a black center.





My biggest successes are probably my poppies. I started with an envelope of red and yellow poppies that someone gave me decades ago. For years, I had red poppies and some yellow ones, then gradually some red poppies became more orange until one day, when amid the yellow, orange, and red grew a single snow white poppy. Since then  I get some white or very light beige/pink poppies every year.

I'll admit I'm fascinated by the genetic changes that occur in my poppies over the years. My thumb may be a little green after all.

Stay safe. Many hugs!
JS


 

Sunday, July 14, 2019

The earth laughs in flowers (quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson) ...by Sheila Claydon



Click here for my books at Books We Love

I haven't had much time to write this year. Instead, sadly, I have been helping friends whose loved ones were very sick, and who have now passed away. It's been a time of sadness and several funerals but, as is always the way when someone dies, the tears have been intermingled with laughter as the good times are remembered. This was especially the case yesterday.

It was the first secular funeral I had attended so I didn't know what to expect. What I got was a day of joy. The music, which was special to the family and the deceased, was joyful, as were the very personal speeches. Nobody wore black. Instead the women were in bright dresses and the men relaxed and tieless, in shirtsleeves. The sun was warm, birds sang and it wasn't at all difficult to imagine the deceased nodding his approval, his wonderful smile wide as he saw all his family and friends together, laughing as they remembered.

And the lovely display of yellow and red family flowers, glowing like a pile of jewels on top of the coffin, made me think of the language of flowers. Red roses for passion,  red tulips for true love,  lilies and poppies for sympathy in death, pink roses and hydrangea for gratitude, iris for faith and hope, lily-of-the-valley for sweetness and purity, they carry so much symbolism. Cultures differ so much too. What might be right for one country can be wrong for another. And it's not just countries, it can even be local. In some places in the UK it is thought to be unlucky to bring bluebells into a house, whereas it is fine in other areas. Tree blossom is a no no too, as is giving anyone a single daffodil. They must always be given in bunches.  Flower lore is endless, as is the pleasure flowers bring.




My mother was a florist, so I grew up with flowers, and although by the time I was a teenager we lived in an apartment, the balcony was still full of flowers from spring through to winter, and her enthusiasm has not only rubbed off onto me, it increases with every year.  Nothing gives me more pleasure than walking around my own garden checking every new shoot, or deadheading blooms past their prime so that others can replace them. And I love the difference the seasons bring. In the early spring everything is either primrose yellow or white, then comes the blue and purple season followed by  shades of pink from the palest rose to the deepest cerise. Later the yellows return, but now mixed with orange and scarlet, then it's the evergreens and a tracery of bare branches as winter takes over...not for long though. In January the first snowdrops appear, as do the hellebores, better known as Christmas roses, and then the pink camellias start to bud.

















Loving flowers as I do is one of the reasons I wrote Bouquet of Thorns. To me, it was like going back in time to when my mother was alive and I sometimes used to help her when she had to build displays or decorate an hotel. One of my fondest and most exciting memories is helping carry boxes and pots of flowers aboard the  ocean liners that used to dock in the port city of Southampton where I was born. It was long before the days of the modern cruise ship and ocean voyages took weeks instead of days. It  was a real event for many travellers and those with wealthy friends were sent off with huge bouquets. Once my job was done I was sent down to the galley where chefs would pile a plate high with food,  and then later sent me home with boxes of chocolates or a special desert which I had to sneak out.

Now, so many years older, I have been a passenger on cruise liners to many parts of the world, but none of them, however grand, have had that old fashioned elegance and grandeur of the ships of my distant past. Happy memories, whether they are of people or of events are so precious, and if they are garlanded with the memory of flowers, then they are even more so.






Wednesday, May 29, 2019

Writing Life Self Care


Barnes & Noble

"...watching the wheels go round and round..."
 The quote is from a post-Beatles John Lennon song, because I'm in a similar dropped out, meditative State. The New Englander inside my head keeps yelling that I "ought" and "should" do lots of things, like mow and mop and scoop cat poop and write and call my repugnant congressman, so maybe what I've got currently is simply Sloth.  Who knows? I'm not a Spring time Optimist--especially this spring, where Ragnarok--at least--apparently just around the corner for our poor old 21st Century world.

Lying fallow is part of the writing life, it seems, every bit as much as the obsessed hustle of those "creative" moments, when The Spirit of Tell Me a Story takes possession. I'm still a writer, though, even if nothing is coming out, information is always coming in, whether it's just this year's peonies, lanky from over-dosing on fertilizer (I think) and the record 12 months of rain-rain-rain we've just logged here in PA, or the burst of color around the base of the Witch Hazel. Here are little moments of lovely that I'm collecting a memory of for later.




.

May into June  I always seem to be waiting for something. I'm wondering if it's because 50+ years ago, my new husband and I were living in a basement apartment in Boston. I was awaiting the birth of a first child. We were taking time off from college, having our baby and getting our feet under us a married couple. It was hot as the hinges of hell before a/c there in the city, and I, sweaty and fat, ironed my husbands shirts in a hallway which connected the three rooms in which we lived.

It was also the summer of the Boston Strangler, so being alone in a basement apartment for hours every day was--let us say--unnerving. We didn't have a television, only a radio, but enough scary news came, on the hour, via that. I'll never forget the moments of stepping out into the hall, listening for the sound of human activity in the laundry-cum-trash bin-area, and, finally, after deciding the coast was clear, turning and swiftly locking the door behind me before running as fast as a heavily pregnant 19 year old can go upstairs to the lobby. It was not a transition I looked forward to. I walked along the burning sidewalks to the Shop Rite many blocks away with my little, happily anticipating the shade of each and every ragged city tree.




I spent a lot of head time in either past or future back then--the mysterious trial of labor lay ahead of me as well as the gender surprise which, in those days, only came upon the birth of the baby. An only child and a bookworm, my education came not from female relatives or neighbors, but from Alan Guttmacher's Pregnancy & Childbirth, as well as a then revolutionary English book called Natural Childbirth, by Dick Grantly.

At the clinic, when I asked about this method, I was cautioned rather sharply that "American Women are too weak for that."  An epidural, I was informed, was the closest I could get to "natural."  I also had a well-worn copy of The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding, loaned to me by a mother of eight who my husband used to baby sit for. In the end, the anticipated drama of "going into labor," --such a standard of books and movies--never happened. One day, I rode the bus to the hospital and then was required to stay. By the time they'd given me the epidural, my son had practically arrived, so, in the end, I was glad I'd geekily studied the Grantly book with care and had learned some strategies to deal with what I was supposed to be "too weak" to endure.


Time has passed, lots of it! Those childbirth stories I can tell are part of history, fifty years past, tales that are triggered by birthdays and Call The Midwife. That hapless younger self is gone, replaced by one that is older, wiser, but doubtless just as hapless as ever. This body hurts for no discernible reason at times, but that's apparently the new normal, as entropy takes hold. We all know the jokes: "Past your sell-by date" etc. I've got several stories begun--two series books I want to complete--but it's all on hold.


Zauberkraft: Black
(And Where oh Where is Zauberkraft: Green?)

The characters have walked away; they aren't speaking to me, not telling me their "thrilling tales of yesteryear." I used to fret when this happened, to do writing exercises and tricks to jump-start the flow. One thing I've learned over the years, though is that worrying doesn't solve a single thing. I've also learned that sometimes, sitting on the patio, watching the clouds flowing this way, and then that, while the  jet stream tries to figure out what it's trying to accomplish in this part of Pennsylvania feels sufficient. 

Here I sit, enough to eat, roof over my head, surrounded by green--the weary old trees with holes full of starlings and woodpeckers, and the spry young trees, ones "I've known from nut and acorn" like the Ent, Treebeard, in LOTR.  It's sufficient, the light and the green.

           "To see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower
             Hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour."
                ~~William Blake
                https://www.brainyquote.com/authors/william_blake

  
I've realized The Muse will come back when (and if) She/He/It feels like it. In the meantime, try on a dragon tail; lighten up, reminisce with small pieces concerning pains and pleasures past, enjoy your bright little spark of human consciousness--and scribble on!   






~~Juliet Waldron
For all my historical novels:
https://www.julietwaldron.com

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