A Place for Lace

Sometimes choices are crystal clear; just as often, though, they’re not, and you just take the plunge. It’s a good time of year to use that word, because in midsummer, leaps into even murky bodies of water are rarely regretted.

 

 

When the optometrist slides those different lenses into the machine and asks you, “Is this one better, or this?” usually it’s easy to say. And even a pleasure, because you anticipate that your choice will result in better vision, something you would wish for everyone in all corners of the globe.

 

 

Recently, though, a crowd of wispy plants claiming a space that they didn’t usually own threw me a surprise: should they stay or should they go? Not at all clear, suddenly.

Since the mechanical mower was in the shop even past when the human mower was in Texas, there was a lengthy July window to see what Nature would choose to do with our field. Turns out, there was a dress-up plan: lace, everywhere.

 

 

If these plentiful plants could talk, I don’t think they’d use the word “unbearable” to describe their quality of lightness, because they look so completely at ease, displaying their medallions of tiny white flowers on long green stalks. The tops are like discs, trays with just one milky color. But holding anything on top would defeat the purpose, which is to reach towards the sun, moving only slightly with a companionable breeze.

With many more of them around than usual, I discovered they had a positive effect.

When my early summer thoughts became anxiety-laden, too heavy, a glance out the window or a walk right through these tendrils almost lifted me right up off the ground. “Weight?” they said, “What weight?”

The scientific name is “Daucus carota” and apparently the root actually resembles a carrot. But don’t confuse it with the deadly poisonous hemlock or else it’ll be curtains, not carrots, for you! On the brighter side, through history people have made tea from the plant to treat kidney stones and the seeds have been considered a handy contraceptive.

This last fact makes it even more interesting when we consider that another name for Queen Anne’s Lace is, I kid you not, Bishop’s Lace.

So, the Queen Anne part is explainable: it’s believed that one Queen Anne or another was an expert lace-maker, but apparently not so expert that she didn’t jab her finger a time or two: the red dot, whatever it is, often found in the center of the flower is an excellent representation of the drop of blood that surely fell from her finger.

 

 

So did bishops used to make lace, too? No, but for this name to stick, they must have worn it a lot more than they do in the current age. I’m told that nowadays some bishops (no names, please) still carry on the tradition, for very special occasions, but it’s not the norm. Thank goodness, if you ask me. That would really complicate our laundry routine.

Around here, T-shirts are all the rage, especially when it’s time to mow.

And this brings us right back to the complicated choice, at least in my mind, about which kind of back field is better: shaggy, or shorn. I was ready to go to bat for the speechless flowers, or weeds; but before I could even do a practice swing, a new red mower had replaced the old green one, and it struck me right out.

 

 

To be fair, I might have spoken up sooner, had a real alternative plan. And the carpet of green grass is also lovely, in its own way. But I still wince at what has been lost. It’s a common feeling in any season, actually.

Now, when that heaviness comes around again, I can still look on the bank beyond the stone wall. I hope the peaceful riot continues there all summer.