The day lilies will always go with me
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- June 22, 2025
- 27
The summer solstice slipped in on the petals of my day lilies. My heart skipped a beat as three separate plants were blooming their little heads off. I dug them up the fall before we moved, hoping I was digging in the right place. I had deep yellow, apricot, lemon yellow, maroon and several others I was hoping to keep alive.
I have them scattered throughout my small perennial beds, but as of now, the only ones blooming are the yellow ones. I’m happy they’re alive and thriving, but I’m hoping the others will surprise me and open.
I sat outside last Sunday morning and listened intently to the sounds on my block. There were kids playing basketball down the street and shrieks from younger kids in a bouncy house next door.
My chair rocked as I sank into the cushions and let my brain rest. Whether I’m in the country or city, it seems all I need is a deep front porch to relax on. The colorful blooms from my container plants are vibrant, giving me that burst of feeling I need in summer. I love driving up to my little house and seeing the splashes of color. I’ve planted all the annuals I need, but I wouldn’t pass up a deeply on-sale hanging basket.
I miss the proximity of the small veggie markets of Holmes County. I could pop over for early lettuce and radish, then later corn and tomatoes. I haven’t found one up here that has fresh from the garden produce. I’ll track some down before everything starts being harvested. I’m lamenting I didn’t find fresh strawberries for shortcake. It’s too late now unless some late bloomers find me.
We celebrated George’s birthday last week, and it’s been three years since his heart attack and one year since his bypass surgery. Fifty-eight years on this churning planet, and we still get to drink coffee together every morning. I feel lucky that he’s mine. I made him his favorite meal of chicken and mole with rice and beans. The word “mole” comes from the Nahuatl language, meaning “sauce.”
Here is where I admit to never having learned to love mole. I had the real, authentic thing when I lived in Mexico, and I’m convinced it’s a learned taste, just like cilantro, which I dislike as well. But I enjoyed watching him slurp up the sauce rapturously.
Summer lies on the porch for us, with cool drinks and snacks within reach. Close by is a beautiful park with walking trails and the Canton Garden Club, which has beautiful plantings along the path. Our favorite dari-ette sits just down the street — Kustard Korner — and I plan to partake of their hot fudge brownie cake sundae more than once. George loves their strawberry ice cream.
I don’t know what our future holds or where we might be in one year. We’ve been talking about plans and routes that would lead us away — things that must be talked about in years that hold uncertainty, things most don’t have to consider.
For now I’m enjoying my day lilies and the way they arc their heads toward the morning sun. No matter where I end up in this world, their beauty will travel with me.
Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.