There is a geranium cutting staring at me from a jam jar of water near the kitchen sink. I’m doing the dishes, and this yellowing, leaf-dropping, cutting is crying out to be planted in the garden.
Gran loves them.
So there is usually a cutting, or a clipping, or an uprooted bit of stem that turns up each week on the kitchen bench. Their arrival, their presence in our house, is a surreptitious reminder that Gran loves geraniums. Mostly red ones. And you can never have too many. Apparently. . .
It is also a reminder of the uncanny ability of pensioners to collaborate on spreading diversity amongst gardens.
Outside Grans bedroom window there is something of a Mr Petit Paradis grotto that I have created to accommodate the growing catalogue of geranium cuttings. There is a white one amongst them too. It came in tow with a red one. Perhaps intended as a duet, but in Gran’s world I would suggest that there is a more subtle reason. Like the pretty, little, white geranium’s lot in life is actually to just make the red ones seem redder and brighter and more spectacular.
Red Geraniums. What garden couldn’t be brighter without them?