A dried bouquet

An classic keepsake, I suppose.

It's not about the looks, that's for sure.  But I've kept it for 34 years.  It's faded now, of course, to the brown hues that plant pigments become, whether they were blue or white or orange to begin with.

This small (probably grocery store) bouquet was made of blue statice, white baby's breath, and some sort of small composite (now unrecognizable in its tan form).

It accompanied me to our small garden wedding on a late August morning, thankfully following a cool front pushing through.

We were post-docs in Maryland at the Smithsonian Environmental Research Center that summer, so we choose the garden setting (their landscape, really) of a small historic inn nearby.

It was small and simple.  My musician sister sang and played her guitar.  And we walked down a narrow hilly path to the small grassy spot where the ceremony was held.

It was a long time ago and we've been on a journey every since, sharing all sorts of things, both at home and far afield.

Keeping my last name was not too unusual at the time, but it definitely was unusual in the small Georgia college town where we were relocating.

And it was equally unusual that I stayed in Maryland to finish out my longer post-doc time, before joining my gardening companion at what was then Georgia Southern College, now Georgia Southern University.

My faded bouquet hangs on a hook between my Wagner Bros. Clothier wrapping paper and the Mt. Shasta fruit label, right up to the left of where I face my computer.

The London Town Publik House cup is on one of Granddad and Grandmother's bookcases, surrounded by the books that made it through downsizing.  (The screen was rigorous).  But that's a post for another day.