#those flowers in the fields in that photo are white chrysanthemums | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pyroclaststan · 3 years

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CW: body horror, gore, graphic depictions of injuries, Nanosurge event

The two of you had been running and you made it so far—you were going to get away, you were going to make it, but then Syrah started screaming.

She hit the ground flailing, howling, peeling apart. It was like her skin was disappearing from her limbs, and she kept yelling, pieces of her mouth starting to disappear, too.

There are no words you could ever use to describe the noise of someone gargling on blood and bile and those things as they ate through her lungs and chest and throat.

To describe the sight of your lifelong best friend sloughing apart and disappearing before your very eyes as she tries to scream and call out, only to be unmade.

In her final throws she reached out for you.

It hurt.

Now it feels like burning, and stinging, and itching all at once.

You cannot look away as the horror settles into you, freezing you in place. You watch as your left leg peeled, layer by layer, and eaten like the many before you—like the many around you.

It hurts, but you cannot scream, you cannot sob: you saw how they got into your best friend’s mouth that way. It ended quicker for her than the others but you do not want an end at all.

You kick the remnants of your leg in futility, as if to shake them off with sheer willpower as they eat their way closer. It’s all you can do. The swarm on you is multiplying; you see them like a hive of ants, now beginning to eat away at your fingers.

No one will be coming for you.

There is a chorus of screams a few yards away.

“NO!” a bloodcurdling howl of a voice echoes out.

It is the wretched, horrible scream of someone desperate out there, and your head whips around for the source despite your situation. Someone is close enough that they might see you—you might live.

Further across the field three—no, a body, just two—of the Rangers are gathered. One of them is actually not a Ranger at all but that vigilante you’ve seen, Sidestep, who is standing over the writhing form of Marshal Charge, hands out.

In the fields around you, you see the swarms of those creatures coalesce and gather, all stopping mid air before moving towards Sidestep, floating up and over their head like a rippling ball of shimmering black water. A river Styx of souless little creatures.

Looking down you realise that your leg is no longer being flayed by the microscopic monsters, flesh and bone gone like it was never there; your hands shake as you desperately peel off your shirt to tie around the stump, hoping through your panic it stems the bleeding as your adrenaline fades. You’ve never done anything like this before—your hands are shaking awfully. Blood loss and possible shock making you run cold.

In the few minutes more that follow the pause of those things, as you clutch what’s left of you, you hear more screams and the sounds of heavy footsteps: everyone left is being evacuated and before you know it Charge himself is beside you, scooping you into his arms before sprinting along with the crowds of survivors as if he weren’t screaming earlier. You were just close enough that he saw you; you clench his shoulders with your tremoring hands, unable to stop the tears that pour down your sweating skin. You’ve never known death this closely. You don’t know if your fear or relief is greater.

Surrounding the two of you are the desperate, the pleading, the injured, but you cannot tear your eyes away from their target to see all of them. Your hearing is muffled by a ringing of tinnitus, even as Charge hands you over to another person before running back to save others struggling out there. As all the heroes get to work while they have this new advantage.

You can’t stop watching Sidestep.

They stand there, alone, hands held to the sky as if to hold a barrier around the writhing mass of murderers. You think of the class last week: the Titan Atlas holding up the heavens. You see the way their arms and legs shake, muscles sure to be straining, their heavy breaths under their super-suit. There is no dramatic lighting or music to highlight their effort, this dire situation is all too real. They’re too close to those swarms but they don’t budge an inch, a hand coming to their head as they let out a bellow of pain.

The man holding you is trying to flee with you, but you can’t stop twisting in his arms—you need to see this: you need to witness what Sidestep is doing, what Sidestep has done. Someone needs to remember that they are alone amongst those… demons.

Others are watching too, crying, and after some time when Sidestep’s knee buckles and their hands fall to brace themself the entire crowd flinches as one. The swarm wavers looking like they might escape and spread again, but Sidestep’s hand quickly rises back up and they fall back into their synchronised swim. The terror is palpable, the air is thick, the smells of the dead nauseating in the breeze, but you all cannot stop watching. Even the reporters are keeping a silent vigil, unable to believe any of this.

A hero is saving you.

Time passes and you’ve all huddled together, taking care of each other, locating family, slipping out silent prayers. A nurse who was among the survivors has helped you with your leg so far: medical should be arriving soon, you won’t be saving that leg. You might have lost too much blood, or you will. She’s just waiting for the shock to set it now, holding your hand so you’re not alone through it.

But you don’t care because out there so many have lost more than you. Others are still fighting so you all don’t lose more, even now. And one is stemming the tide.

Charge is behind Sidestep as they keep on despite being brought to their knees and struggling, posted like a sentry but gripping his own arm, and you can almost make out the look of abject horror on his face as he watches the swarm hovering before them; small flickers of static arcs when the hive moves or breaks synchronisation.

Medical has arrived and you are being carted off to a rescue vehicle while containment is still on the way, but you still don’t look away—you can’t look away. It has been hours and they are shaking and they are struggling but they are holding. You burn that sight into the back of your head before the ambulance doors close. Your hero.

Your dream always ends there: you were gone before they’d collapsed. Before it was over.

———

Today is the anniversary of that awful day; the persistent nightmare that haunts even your days through all the scars. It’s hard to go outside most days, hard to watch the news and catch a glimpse of that silver woman that scares you so much. It’s hard to do much of anything that isn’t sitting locked in your workspace, building, tinkering, or fixing. But this day is an exception to all those great fears.

You stop by the florist with the modded hand: she remembers the day as well as you, sometimes the two of you talk about it while you work on her hand. She’s bundling up Syrah’s yearly bouquet, handpicking each flower by some meanings you’ve never gotten around to learning about them, stopping only to help a haggard looking man she also seems to know well with a bundle of white chrysanthemums. You can smell the alcohol on him from here, but that’s none of your business: today is a hard day for more people than you and Maritsa.

She tells you to give her love to your old friend; she never goes herself, no matter how much time passes. She lost too much to that nightmare—a wife, two kids, some family.

Your eyes linger on one of the few white chrysanthemums that man left behind, scratching the scar tissue buildup on your finger’s skin weave, something telling you to pick one of those up, too. Her garden hardy mums cost a lot but you know anything she grows in her greenhouse is well worth the price.

Heading out with your newspaper bouquet in hand, you fall into step with the Los Diablos crowds, easily able to pick out who in the crowd is headed the same way as you. You can see it in their heavy steps and weighted shoulders and you wonder if you show it, too.

The memorial isn’t a plot of headstones—too many were lost for that—but instead a large stone and steel wall, covered from one end to another with names and birthdays of victims. Flowers, candles, teddy bears, liquor, and photos rest on the ground here every year, and every year the crowd and offerings grow smaller. Everyone eager to forget.

You take your place in front of Syrah’s name, fingers sliding quietly against the stone that’s too cold for having sat in Diablos’ heat as long as it has. To your right you see Desiderio placing his usual marigolds—also from Maritsa’s—against the stone, then falling into prayers as he always does. The flowers in your hands begin to feel too heavy so you set them down, quietly sit in prayer with Desi, and hold each other once the tears that always come arrive.

It’s a small, distant family you’ve made out of this place and the only other people who could understand your loss; no matter how much time passes between gatherings you all know you have each other. But you cannot stay all day, lost in the memories: you have one more important stop to make.

At the gates of your destination a man in a grey hoodie and a larger man in a blue one passes you, and once again you are hit by a wave of booze. Looking after them, you notice the back of the smaller, hunched over one: it’s that man again, being escorted by someone you hope is his friend. A few moments more and you draw in a deep breathe, gathering resolve before heading in.

So here you are at yet another memorial. Not the memorial to that scarred, barren earth you pointedly avoid looking at but the memorial to the hero you’d lost, gone after another even that shook the city to its core before they ended it. The hero this entire city lost. The dark headstone that’s all that’s left of Sidestep.

The black and teal hoodie you’ve worn in over the years always feel likes the only thing appropriate to wear as you sit here, sitting before the looming stone in your usual spot, staring at the bundle of white flowers and the half-full beer can beside it. Chrysanthemums bundled up with Maritsa’s trademark twine. A smaller bunch of white lilies next to it, from somewhere else. That man’s modded friend maybe; you know the signs like you know the smell of the dead. All too well.

You scratch the phantom itch crawling along the former calf and thigh of your modded leg, unable to chase away the ghost of a life past. Unable to turn back the clock. Unable to say thank you.

You set your flowers down next to that man’s, hoping that he found peace in his visit here like you do. Hoping that someone’s there to help him through that event and its scars, too. You really hope that was a friend.

The picture of your masked hero is peeling from all the rain and heat, the flowers and offerings dwindling as folks try to forget those terrible events, but you remain. Year after year.

Living is the only thanks you can give them.

#the mischief scribbles #MC: Kingsley Chrysanta #(I mean—technically)#FH:R #I’m not really going to tag Ortega since this person wasn’t aware that it was him #Nanosurge #a FH:R NPC #pre-Rebirth #Fallen Hero: Rebirth #NPC: Ifama #hmm… don’t care for this one tbh

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kai-n-ali · 4 years

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In the Fields of Asphodel (My Regrets Follow You to the Grave) | Chapter One

Eleanor Blum didn’t know what to think of this man, this Peaky Blinder devil that made all of Small Heath cower before him, this almost-stranger with his dead wife and dead stare, but she wished he’d stop showing up at the flower shop she worked in. And that he’d stop looking at her with those blue eyes of his.

Follows aftermath of Season 03 throughout Season 04. Tommy x OFC.

Warnings: Depictions of child abuse, antisemitism towards OFC (slurs), canon-typical violence, canonical deaths, sexual themes, etc.

Word Count: 5K

Chapter Two ❀ Chapter Three

Chapter 1: Citron (Ill-natured Beauty)

The bell let out a series of chimes as the door creaked on its hinges, and in a small florist shop tucked between a gelateria and an abandoned butchery, Eleanor Blum officially met the devil of Small Heath.

She wasn’t impressed.

Flora’s, the little florist and botanical shop, had become a haven for the twenty-three-year-old in the time that she’d lived above Cora Evans’ storefront: only a few short weeks. Flora’s, partially named after Cora’s granddaughter, Florence, was a bright spot of color among the grit and grimness of Birmingham, with flower boxes brimming with asters and foxgloves, strawflowers and marigolds. Along the south-facing wall, honeysuckle crawled up the scratched brick, and the thick, sweet scent of the flowers almost washed out the stench of shit wafting up from the nearby horse stables or the sour-milk scent from gone-off gelato dumped in the dumpster, left to fester in the summer heat.

Inside, the shop was cluttered, bouquets dotting the window display and trailing back in colorful bunches all throughout the front of the store, some put in ornate vases, others in ribbon-adorned mason jars, and a few placed into half-rusted buckets. Petals and leaves dotted the floor, and the room reeked of lavender and fresh-cut stems, grassy and clean. In the back of the store where the rare plants were, packets of seeds labelled in Cora’s handwriting, and now in Eleanor’s own scrawl, lined their worktable in rows.

When he first came in, she didn’t bother looking up from her spot bent over one of the tables, hands streaked in dirt from potting snapdragon cuttings—they were very fashionable right now for front gardens, apparently—and the charcoal from her pencils. She’d plucked a honeysuckle bloom off its stem earlier in the morning and was practicing the loose lines of it on paper with strokes of a pencil.

The bell chimed, and Eleanor heard none of it, not until a voice cleared its throat a few paces in front of her. Eleanor jolted up, pushed a few curls out of her eyes.

The man in front of her was beautiful in the way most wild things were when trapped behind glass. The way vines were beautiful when they were confined to the cracks of cobblestone, peeking out in glimpses of brilliant green. With cheekbones that looked like they’d split the pads of her fingers if she reached out to touch, that looked like they were meant for dinner parties as much as they were for being flecked in blood, Eleanor felt herself stiffen. She knew this man. Sort of.

That newsboy cap was just ridiculous.

Thomas Shelby, the husband of Grace Shelby, stood in her new place of employment. The last time she’d seen him, Eleanor had been at a gala in a new dress, gems dripping from her throat and beading trickling off her hem while she grilled his wife on her new orphanage and its living conditions for the second time.

He was a ghost. Some half-wilted thing.

Eleanor tilted her head, taking in the stiff lines of him, the strained civility held in the pale blue of eyes, and thought: how disappointing.

She hadn’t taken Shelby for the kind of man to wilt.

Meanwhile, it seemed Mr. Shelby was studying her as well. The startling blue of his eyes trained on her, cut across by the thicket of his lashes. He swept up and down her form, and she avoided fidgeting just barely. It seemed he recognized her, perhaps from the charity gala for the Shelby Foundation that went so wrong. Eleanor herself had only seen glimpses of him at said event, dressed in a black tux, the cut of his jaw severe and the stretch of his coat across his shoulders making her mouth go dry. She’d seen him as a dark shadow lingering behind his wife, his hand curling around her pale shoulder or tucking a loose, golden curl behind her ear before he was up and off again.

Though, she realized she’d lied before. The last time she’d seen Thomas Shelby, it’d been a black-and-white photo shot from quite a distance, his back ramrod straight as he stood over the coffin of his dead wife. Surrounded by chrysanthemums and hydrangeas. His family stone-faced beside hordes of men in full military garb.

The thought of Mrs. Shelby made her wince, and if anything, that made him stare harder. Something in his eyes questioned, how do I know you? Eleanor wasn’t obliged to answer.

She locked her jaw and crossed her arms over the dirt-streaked cotton of her blouse. “Can I help you?” she asked, “or did you come just to ogle?”

Somewhere from close behind, Eleanor heard a small squeak. She turned to face the noise. Florence, or Flora, sat on one of their many wooden benches, nearly toppling over a vase of petunias with every swing of her feet. Her eyes were very wide. “Ella,” she said, high-pitched, in a more-than-loud whisper. “Ella, that’s Mr. Shelby.”

Flora was a girl of thirteen, with straight, dark hair cut right below her ears, and a smile that grew more lopsided the harder she grinned. When the chores were through and if the shop wasn’t busy, Eleanor would sit down and entertain her with little doodles, half-formed sketches.

Right now, however, she was white as a freshly bleached sheet, her gangly legs jiggling with nerves. She hadn’t grown into them yet, but Eleanor found them endearing—almost coltish. Her eyes darted for her grandmother, but Cora was long gone on an errand.

Mr. Shelby seemed unaffected, clearing his throat again with a cough. One hand rested on his pocket-watch, as though already eager to check the time. “Ella, eh?” She’d never heard him speak before, and the coarseness of his voice made her stomach flip-flop alongside the annoyance burning away at her. “Well, Ella—”

“Eleanor.”

There was a slight furrow to his brow now. It really was painfully fucking charming. He just sort of looked at her, head cocked, considering. Eleanor let out a gust of a sigh.

“It’s Eleanor. My name. Not Ella.” Not to you, she thought. There was a pause, and she heard more than saw Flora place her head into the palms of her hands.

“Tommy Shelby,” he said, as if she didn’t know that, and offered her his hand. Eleanor looked at that hand, the deceptive slimness of his fingers and the narrow taper of his wrist. His callouses were faded, softened with time.

There was dirt under her nails and specks of dried mud up to her wrists, but she shook Mr. Thomas Shelby’s hand like she was wearing silk gloves. All lowered lashes and a coquettish flick of her wrist bone. The high-society ladies back home would surely applaud her if they saw.

Then she ruined it.

“What kind of grown-ass man still goes by the name Tommy?” she blurted before she could stop herself, her hand still in his. His hand had looked almost delicate before, but it engulfed her own. The shocked jerk of it against hers sent a vibration up her arm, and she suppressed a smirk. His eyes narrowed in on her face, a sudden intensity there he hadn’t possessed before. Like he wanted to peel back her skin and look beneath. Off-to-the-side, Flora let out a distressed little sound, akin to a mourner at a funeral. Viewing the body one last time before it lowered into the earth with the worms.

The next sound past his lips was a huff that could’ve been taken for a laugh. If he were any other man. “One without a stick up the ass, I bet.” He tossed a glance Flora’s way, quirked up his mouth. He really had a lovely mouth. “Miss Eleanor.”

And Eleanor couldn’t hold back a grin. “Hm. Agree to disagree, Mr. Shelby.” She crossed her arms over her chest, leaned over the countertop until her curls swung into her face. They were close enough now she could almost feel his breath ghosting the top of her head. “So, what’re you here for, then? Haven’t got all day.” Now, she sweetened her smile so the next bit wouldn’t bite, only sting. “Not even for the likes of you.”

“Y’ know,” and his voice was a slow drawl that made her spine tingle and her hair stand on end, the way his lips formed around the words with the barest hint of threat, of teeth, “people rarely speak to me this way, Miss Eleanor.”

“Not to your face, I’m sure.” She paused. “Mr. Shelby.”

Was it just her, or was he almost smiling? “Fair enough. Just a bouquet for me.” His eyes hadn’t left her face. “Of your choosing.”

“Right away,” she said, but something nagged at her. Taking a glance at his clothing—well-pressed and well-tailored, with a dark coat that had to be far too hot for the late July humidity and slacks with a crease down each leg—and thought he looked like a man heading to a funeral. Or a gravestone. Eleanor swallowed. Thought back to that black-and-white photo from near a year ago. Chrysanthemums and hydrangeas.

Despite herself, she wondered if those had been Mrs. Shelby’s favorite flowers. They weren’t the flowers of funerals. Of mourning.

Eleanor cast her gaze around the shop, but there was no arrangement that caught her interest, that fit the bill. She worried at her bottom lip. “Gimme a moment,” she muttered, almost to herself, and stepped out from behind the table. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck.

Off-to-the side, pressed against the wall, were paint buckets filled with loose flowers, rows upon rows of color and texture, bunched together and stems kept in nutrient-enriched water. Among them, she found what she was looking for: chrysanthemums, white and ruffled with their pale green centers; hydrangeas, their purple petals in clusters. She also went for baby’s breath, as sparse and dainty as it was. A good filler for a bouquet, with the bonus of a powerful meaning. Everlasting love. Not that Thomas would know that.

From a pail on one of the many counter spaces, she hunted for a ribbon. All knotted up in a ball, it took her a moment before she found the perfect one and managed to untangle it from the rest. Silky, sage green embroidered with indistinguishable little white buds. Perhaps a touch too long. Plucking and tweaking until it formed into a proper flower arrangement, if not a bit of a rustic one, she made a simple bow around the bundle before turning back to her customer. Taking quick steps to get back behind the main counter. “All done,” Eleanor said. She couldn’t look at him. With the heft of one shoulder, an almost-shrug, she offered the bouquet forward, level with his chest. She traced the pattern of his vest with her eyes, the stitching.

The bouquet was smaller than a lot of the ones on display, less elaborate.

But it felt right.

Reaching into the pocket of her skirts, she rifled for the few spare coins she kept there for emergencies with her spare hand. He’d yet to take the bouquet. She slapped them onto the space in front of him with a clink. Just enough. Flora was strangely silent. “And already paid for.”

Thomas’ eyes felt hot on her face. Almost a brand.

He didn’t say a thank you, just gave a hum under his breath, and when he reached out to grab the flowers, his fingers grazed her own. She wondered what he thought of the scar tissue stretched across her knuckles, her fingers, if he could feel it against his skin, bumpy and rigid. This touch felt different than when he’d shook her hand, and it sent pinpricks of sensation up her forearm. When he let go, she shook out her hand away from view, trying to force the odd tingling away. It lingered.

“Good day, Mr. Shelby.”

“Eleanor.” And when he left, it was with a chime of the shop’s bell.

For a moment, the whole shop was suspended in a hush, as if the world itself had paused, reverberating with that single chime. But then Florence was up in a flurry of movement, flinging herself into Eleanor’s space with a string of expletives that didn’t belong in the mouth of a grown man, not to mention a fourteen-year-old girl. Eleanor laughed despite herself. Threw back her head with the force of it.

“Language,” she chided.

“D’ you ‘ave a death wish?”

Florence’s round eyes were roving over Eleanor’s face, her hands on her hips. She looked very serious—or would’ve, if not for the spot of dirt on the side of her nose.

Eleanor smiled. “Not recently, no.”

The younger girl didn’t seem to find that very funny, and a scowl twisted her features. “That’s Tommy Shelby you just ran your mouth off to, Ella,” she stated, jabbed a finger at her chest. Adorable, Eleanor thought. “Tommy. Shelby.” The stress on these two words was punctuated with another two jabs.

“I know his name.” I’ve met his wife.

“You don’t get it,” she said, and there was a franticness to her voice, her posture. Her hands twitched and fidgeted. “’E’s the leader of the Peaky fuckin’ Blinders. People say ‘e’s worse than the devil ‘imself."

“Language.” But Eleanor’s head was already tilted in curiosity. Worse than the devil? “Peaky Blinders, huh?" She snorted. “Cute.”

“Not cute, Ella, not cute. Dangerous. Deadly. They’re the biggest gang in Birmingham. Turned businessmen. They own us.” She puffed a stray hair out of her eyes. “You get a glance at his cap?” At Eleanor’s nod, she continued. “They sew razors into the brim. You fuck with ‘em, they cut out your eyes.”

Huh. “Is that very effective?” she asked, eyebrows raised high on her forehead. “I mean, that’s a bit of an awkward angle, isn’t it?” Flora groaned, flopping onto a stool besides her, propping her elbows on the counter and resting her forehead in her hands. Eleanor rubbed her back. She seemed to do this quite a lot when Eleanor was around.

Her next words came out muffled by her palms. “The Blinders ain’t no joke, Ella. They set fire to The Marquis for messin’ with one of theirs. Their enemies get found in The Cut without their faces.” Her voice became very quiet, near trembling. Almost tearful. “You shoulda never spoken to Mr. Shelby like that.”

Despite her best efforts, Eleanor felt a shiver run through her. Only she could be stupid enough to meet a devil and reach out to shake his hand. With a smile, no less. Well, it was too late now. She leaned until her shoulder pressed into Flora’s own. “Hey,” she soothed. “Look at me, huh?” Eleanor tapped at the girl’s cheek with a nail until she peered up at her, eyes a bit puffy. “Relax, sweetheart. I doubt he’ll be back anytime soon. Not with the warm welcome I gave him.” And she smiled until Florence couldn’t help but smile back.

The second time Eleanor saw the devil of Small Heath, it was a week later. At Flora’s. And it would be the same as the first.

That damn bell chimed.

It was with relief that Eleanor noted Florence was out of the shop when a Mr. Thomas Shelby arrived for the second time, having been sent off by Cora to the gelateria with just enough money for scoop of her favorite, strawberry swirl. This time around, it was just her and Cora in the near silence of the shop, the record player in the back a mere whisper of jazz. Instead of being up to her elbows in damp soil, she had a paintbrush in her mouth and another clutched between her fingers and thumb, making a new display sign with some thick paper and her tin of watercolors. A sketch of Flora, blowing petals out of the palm of her hand. It was as she was halfway through mixing a color for the shadows of her face that the front door opened. At her side, using twine to bind their loose flowers for the paint buckets, Cora gave a sharp intake of breath.

“Mr. Shelby,” the older woman greeted, hurrying to stand. A strong-featured woman of near fifty, Cora Evans wasn’t one to show fear, or much emotion at all beyond a muted amusement at her surroundings. This sort of “why the hell not?” air of being that she'd clearly perfected over her years. Yet, while her own blue eyes were unwavering on Thomas’ own, Eleanor detected the tense line of her broad shoulders, hiked nearly up to her ears and tickling the grey-brown of her hair. Thomas inclined his head at her boss, and if he looked her way, Eleanor didn’t see it, because she had already turned back to her work, watering down a vermilion for the high spots of color on Flora’s youthful cheeks.

If she didn’t look at him, maybe she wouldn’t be compelled by whatever urge had struck her before—a sudden desire to pick at and tease, to wrestle up a smile on that pretty mouth.

Eleanor shook her head, a minuscule gesture, and huffed a curl out of her eyes. Get it together.

“’Ow may I ‘elp you, sir?” And Cora’s voice was polite, restrained, the normal warmth in her Brummie accent stripped into something foreign to Eleanor. “On the ‘ouse, of course.” At that, she felt her lips pinch despite herself.

While Cora hadn’t been upset when her granddaughter had finally told her the story of Eleanor back-talking to a Peaky Blinder, she had gone a bit pale, setting down the pot in her hands with a heavy clunk on their scraped-up work table. Staring at Eleanor with new eyes. “Pretty fuckin’ stupid of you, love,” she’d said. “They’ve set fire to businesses for less.” And she’d shaken her head. “Messin’ with that Blinder Devil—thought you had some wits about you.” In the end, though, Cora shooed her off when she hastened to spill out apologies, holding out a hand to pat her on her shoulder.

“That Thomas Shelby is more sensible than most of ‘em put together. Not like his mad dog brother. It’ll work out for the best, I bet.”

But now he was back yet again, in a suit lighter than the one before, a pale grey waistcoat with no jacket in sight. His tie was missing, she could tell even from where she hunched over her work, the top button of his dress-shirt undone at the throat. Still looking unbearably hot for the weather. Even the thin material of her house dress clung to her skin with the sweat of being trapped in the shop all day. She didn’t know how he bore it.

“No need,” he said in that already familiar rasp, and she ducked her head further down instead of looking up and catching a glimpse of his face like she wanted. “Found myself in need of another bouquet.” And she could hear the amusement in his voice. “Eleanor. If you would.”

The empty space to the upper right of her drawing distracted her. Should she fill it with roses? Lilies? There was a pause that could be felt hanging in the shop, like a physical touch against her skin, but she kept her gaze to that expanse of untouched white.

“Eleanor,” Cora said, touching gentle fingers to the bared skin of her upper arm. She very rarely wore short sleeves, but with the heat, it felt unavoidable. The circular burns that peppered her arms like kisses—they weren’t even that noticeable, not anymore. Still.

(On another August day, one from over a decade ago, she recalled the press and hiss of the cigarette when it hit her skin, and the way the mud never dried in that miserable backyard back in New York. Before her uncle came and packed her off to London. The backs of her knees were slippery with it as she squirmed and kicked. But the older girl kept a firm grip on her, and Eleanor stayed in place, sinking into the mud and dead, yellow grass. The cigarette was pulled back, still fizzling, and with the click of a lighter, was relit again. And again.)

Eleanor blinked. Blinked again and rubbed a hand over her eyes, eyes that felt much more tired than before. She pulled the paintbrush from her mouth, set it on the countertop. “Of course, I can make you another bouquet, Mr. Shelby. Anything in mind?”

She couldn’t see him, no, but she knew his eyes were smirking at her. Her fingers twitched on her remaining paintbrush. Smug bastard. “Oh, just something to brighten up me office, I think.” And Eleanor clenched her jaw, because that sounded like such shit to her. Why’re you here again, Thomas? She nodded nonetheless, kept her eyes down. You make it very hard to behave. She set down the brush with a clatter.

“I can do that.”

She searched for the most spiteful fucking flowers she could think of. Valerian, an herb frequently used for insomnia, green stems bloomed with clusters of white flowers. Readiness. I could take you, Mr. Shelby. Borage, or starflower, brilliant blue with hints of blush from the blooms with their white spines. Rudeness. Bluntness. And buttercups, their delicate yellow blossoms. A personal favorite and a good splash of color against all the blues and whites. Childishness. And, finally, Love-in-a-mist, or Nigella damascena, with their needle-point leaves and rich indigo petals ending in jagged points. A confession more than anything else, not that he’d know it. You puzzle me.

In her youth, she’d gobbled up all the books on plants and herbs that she could find in her botanically obsessed uncle’s extensive library, and that included tomes on the language of flowers. The knowledge had stuck. And now more than ever, she found herself grateful.

Eleanor plucked all the respective flowers out of their different buckets, organized by color, and set to work gathering the right amounts of each. She took a canary yellow ribbon from the ribbon pail with a flourish, flicking it in the air to get the kinks out. Grabbing a random empty vase that had once housed a beautiful but boring bouquet of a dozen roses—bought by a very frantic man in worker’s clothes and sturdy boots an hour prior, who looked like he was running quite late—she set the mass of flowers inside and set to arranging them.

Flora, who hid a chuckle with a cough at the sight of her flowers of choice, left with a quick word to the backroom and a warning glance that burned into the back of Eleanor’s head. She tried not to fidget.

She was wrapping the ribbon around the hunk of stems when a throat cleared from right by her side. Fuck. Eleanor started, spasming fingers losing the ability to form a bow. Fuck.

“What’s a rich socialite like yourself doing in a flower shop in Birmingham, eh?”

But, God, she couldn’t help but spin to face the man now. Thomas stood with his hip propped up against the table she was using, head tilted and pieces of the unshaved part of his hair near falling into his eyes. Seemed he recognized her now. He looked curious. Hungry. Up close as he was, their shoulders near brushing, she saw the hint of freckles beneath his eyes, on the bridge of his nose. It seemed even devils tanned in the sun.

Everything about him was all graceful command, words spoken in a way that showed he expected to be answered, obeyed.

It reminded her of his wife.

The first time she’d ever seen Mrs. Grace Shelby, it had been at a luncheon held at The Midland Hotel, for the sake of convincing the richest of London society to donate to her cause—the Shelby Foundation, whose first action was building an orphanage in Birmingham. When her uncle, Samuel Connolly, had told her the news, alongside the fact that he’d been invited to attend a luncheon on the subject, she’d begged to be brought along.

“If anyone would have a stake in this,” she’d said at their breakfast table, pointing at his chest with a grapefruit spoon, “it’s me, don’t you think? Let me see how genuine this is.” Sam had set his hazel eyes on hers, lips pursed, but he hadn’t disagreed.

“You’ll have to dress up,” he’d warned, and she’d stuck out her tongue at him, taking a stab at a section of fruit.

Eleanor remembered the way the beading of her dress weighted her down that afternoon, and how all she wanted was to be back home in a pair of trousers, lounging with a book in her lap and Fennel, Sam’s Spinone Italiano, laying on the tops of her bare feet. Keeping her warm. But the rich had an ability to do any good works as half-assed as possible, and with all of her blunt Brooklynite manners from childhood, she had sworn to dig out the truth from this Mrs. Grace Shelby even if it meant pulling out the plyers and using some old-fashioned elbow grease.

That hadn’t been necessary.

The waitress that escorted them both to the hotel’s largest dining room was a near-silent woman, who meekly commented on the pale jade color of Eleanor’s dress before showing them to a room with a table longer than she’d ever seen. A rich, dark-colored wood leaning near black. The napkins were a fashionable rose, the plates rimmed in gold and dotted in florals along the edges. All the candles smelled of faint vanilla and sandalwood.

Even for Eleanor, who had spent her teen years and beyond in Sam’s by-no-means-minuscule manor and had attended many a party due to his notoriety, it was extravagant beyond measure.

At the head of the table, not yet seated and chatting with a plastic but pretty smile on her painted lips, was a woman with honeyed hair and aristocratic, well-bred features. She radiated old wealth in a way Eleanor never could, brought into the fold far-too-late.

(“Oh my, it’s the little orphan bastard.” One of the wives of some business mogul whispered to her friends behind a glove. They all tittered away at her remark, and Eleanor, all awkward limbs and pale pink scars at fifteen years old, sunk back into the shadows of the sitting room. Uncomfortable in her new dress. Uncomfortable in her new life. “How quaint. It seems he really did pick up a new stray, after all.”)

Most of the night was a blur, filled with soft, exaggerated laughter and mutual back-patting. In the dining room, the lighting was dim, almost sensual despite it being only two in the afternoon. Flattering everything into a near dream-like state. At the front of the table, Mrs. Shelby had glowed. Almost an hour prior, her hand had been soft and unblemished in Eleanor’s own. Even her handshakes felt soft as silk. But when Eleanor had cornered her later in the evening over a round of drinks, her own whiskey-sour in a fine crystal glass that felt like a paperweight in her hand, she had revealed pure steel beneath the refined veneer. Eleanor could barely recall her barrage of questions now, from over a year ago.

“What of the orphans with surviving family? Will they be entitled to visitation? And the staff—what of them? Would they be receiving proper background checks prior to their employment?” It had gone on-and-on, and Grace Shelby had answered with assurance blanketing her tone, and a blade tucked beneath her tongue, ready to wield. Her eyes steady. Demanding trust. Eleanor had, though begrudgingly, given it. And promised to have more questions the next time they met. Mrs. Shelby had seemed, almost, like she was looking forward to it.

But, well, the second and last time she’d seen Grace Shelby. Well.

In the present, Eleanor zeroed back in on Thomas. He was studying her.

She knew the red of her lipstick must be smudged. That there was surely charcoal streaked on her face from using her pencils earlier in the day. That the nape of her neck was sticky with sweat, soaking the curls there.

Still, Eleanor arched her brow at who, apparently, was the most fearsome man in Birmingham. “I used the wrong fork,” she drawled. “Perilous mistake.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They locked eyes, and Eleanor wasn’t going to be the one to blink first. Without looking, she knotted the bow and pulled tight. “All done,” she said. She rambled off a price, perhaps one a little higher than necessary. She couldn’t help herself.

He blinked at her before reaching into his pocket for the money, and Eleanor let out a gust of air when his eyes left her. How were they so blue? Reaching under the table for some tissue paper to wrap the bouquet in, she offered it forward, gripping it by the bottom of the stems. His own fingers grasped it above her own and tugged it out of her hand. He was oddly gentle about it. “Have a nice day, Thomas,” she told him, a clear dismissal, and he quirked a brow at her in a barely-there question. Whether it was because of the curt tone or the usage of his first name—it had just slipped out, she didn’t know why—she wasn’t sure.

Either way, he left. And Eleanor slumped, boneless, against the countertop. What the honest fuck.

Now, she knew better than to believe this would be the last time they saw each other.

And true enough, they met yet again. This time at no fault of their own.

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winebleeds · 4 years

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@bnjmin sent ❛ b, d, p, q (for reasons), u for all ❜

⤑ VALETINE’S HEADCANONS

B : BOUQUET. does your muse like flowers? which ones are their favourite?

raleigh: he likes flowers in the sense of being around during hikes. so, if there’s a purple flower by a rock, he’ll comment that’s a pretty purple, internally or externally. but he isn’t someone to go out of his way to pick flowers out at a store (even, again, he may find a bouquet pretty when walking by) and he doesn’t really know the names of flowers compared to his preference of trees. he loves trees. but i’ll save that for another day. but, if he has to name a flower...

liz: yeah... she likes roses, mainly red or white roses. though, while roses are her favorite, she may buy something that looks nice / fits the current theme for her interior design. however, she’s not the best with maintaining plants, so they don’t last long. but she’s the most likely to buy a bouquet of flowers as a gift, either for a close friend she knows like flowers or a romantic partner. she’ll also make sure to know what flowers said people would like to best, which includes succulents.

jamie: im not quite sure about his own preferences to flowers, mainly because it’s not something he thinks about. however, like liz, he’ll buy flowers for someone he cares about. first to come to mind was his college ex, where he would always get flowers after on of her dance recitals.

maddie: she loves loves loves flowers! her favorite are sunflowers, but daisies, carnations, & chrysanthemums are on the top of her list. heck, she even has a tattoo (bonus link about all her tatts & the brothers; the main one here is #7 for maddie, though i do have to update this) she’s also someone who looks closely at floral meaning, though she often just uses her own meanings based on how she views the design / color & the other person. for example, she regrets how yellow carnations mean rejection since yellow is maddie’s color, but will combined yellow & red roses as both representation of liz & herself and the happiness having her sister around brings her. she may even wear floral patterns, definitely more than liz, and use floral designs in her artwork. and, yeah, more like to work at a flower shop in those tropey flower shop au’s.

D : DATE. what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?

general: im answering this as the ideal first date, or early dates. while i think some of the settings to personalities shown in these answer may show the type of people that can fit these, im not going to say ‘who with’ since there’s a lot of flexibility on dating & “P” sorta answers that.

raleigh: somewhere that isn’t too crowded but isn’t too private either. so, don’t expect anywhere like a club or a home. he’ll like hiking the best, especially with his dogs & other pets around. while trails can be private, there’s also people that can come by & it’s not a crowded space. cafes at slow hours are also fine too. and outdoor settings, so like eating outside or dogs parks or just outside. he’s an outdoor person at heart, and spending hours in the hospital or off days where he can hardly get out the bed makes him appreciate any time he can get outside more, so he’ll prefer those as early dates, even if it’s as simple as reading on a park bench hearing the water. oh! and museums! he loves all kinds of museum & aquariums, maybe zoos.

liz: she doesn’t date. don’t say that you’re dating. who cares if she spends more time with you, mainly doing things you like or asks you to meet her at her special chocolate shop so she can see what types of chocolates you like while you seeing all the dark chocolate she selects. or cooks for you or she even helps you with things you’ve been struggling with, even as she struggles herself at certain things. you both go to the bar together without either of you hooking up with anyone else despite that being “the purpose.” hell, who cares if the two of you made out while stargazing on the top of a skyscraper or travelled to an open field or even woke up to the smell of breakfast the morning after. who cares if everyone calls you a couple or you fell yourself falling for her & the private moments you know she doesn’t share with anyone else but you: she 👏 doesn’t 👏 date. 👏

jamie: a sporting event may be something fun. and especially couple workouts. but also horseback riding together or being around animals. there’s also him cooking for his date, though he can tolerate going out to restaurants. but, overall, there needs to be some sort of active activity alongside the date just because he has a hard time staying still.

maddie: concerts from other artists or her & the date playing music together. but she likes museums or aquariums too, though she leans towards art museums or photo galleries. then there’s even more exciting events like paintball or roller skating. i think she’s inbetween jamie & raleigh in the sense that she needs to be active but can be tranquil when the moment is right, and that she prefers more public locations but can be in big crowds.

P : PARTNER. what does your muse look for in a partner? looks / personality?

raleigh: uh, someone that’s strong & independent. someone that can take a leadership role but isn’t too demanding. while feeling he needs guidance sometimes, he likes his independence too. and definitely someone who doesn’t mind being around his dogs or mind husky hair on them, of course.

liz: these are not things she necessary look for, but things i’ve realize occurs with romantic ships... someone she feels needs some sort of guidance in their life or someone that accepts liz trying to take care of everything. so someone submissive (mainly in bed) yet being able to remind liz to not overwork herself. because a lot of her partners give her advice or suggestions that can change her mindset or try to work to what the partner wants, even if she pretends to remain distant about it. she’s VERY internal & isn’t going to communicate her own wants, because she does get to the point where partner > her. and im about to go off topic since this isn’t about what she looks for in her partner uh... she likes tattoos & leans towards artistic people or people in subjects that can tell her things she doesn’t know much about (and she likes all sorts of knowledge). occasionally she’ll realize a fwb is getting to close, and sometimes that ends up as something more but usually her attachment issues kicks in & she leaves. :/

jamie: uh i guess someone who’s physically fit? or at least can keep up with him. as in, the other person doesn’t need abs but can learn to throw a football or walk a couple miles with ease. it’s more due to this being the types of people he hangs around with due to his job. he’s also drawn to sophistication, if that makes sense. like, his college ex was a ballet dancer. but it’s also like, someone he feels some sort of awe too, which could be being sophisticated in lets say physics or have a smile he feels is worth a million bucks.

maddie: usually she ends up with another fellow musician or artist because it’s the folks she hangs around with & finds comfort in having that same interest. and she CAN loose interest pretty quickly in terms of dating, but can remain as friends.

Q : QUESTION. would your muse ask the big question or expect their partner to?

raleigh: he’ll ask first, but would be fine if the other partner asks. especially if they feel impatient with him trying to gain courage to ask. tho like someone else i could see him asking when drunk and not remembering in the morning & be like ‘... oops.’

liz: next.

jamie: he’ll ask. all the way. he’ll feel the most weird if someone asked him.

maddie: the partner to ask.

U : UNREQUITED. has your muse had their heart broken?

raleigh: yep. half the time he breaks it himself because he puts high expectations on either himself or how things with someone will go.

liz: no. because she doesn’t have one. actually her parents have broken her heart as in her struggles with any sort of attachment, romantic platonic or whatever, due to her mother leaving and then her father’s later dependence on liz / his constant reminders of never get close to people have really damaged her but we won’t go there.

jamie: yes. mainly with irene leaving him, though that was all his fault. there’s also the married woman and how she manipulated jamie’s heart where he has a hard time trusting others but we won’t go there.

maddie: yeah. though she’s fickle in relationships, but it hurts anytime a guy breaks up with her or she has to break up. and it’s happen enough where she became reserved about letting others know about dates because telling others ‘yeah we broke up’ hurts her a lot. :/

#long post for ts /#( v. answered )#( j. headcanon )#( m. headcanon )#( e. headcanon )#( r. headcanon )#bnjmin #im not answering that one question for reasons... and you know.

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geralldhopp · 4 years

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New Chemical Control Option for Thrips and Whitefly

A new pesticide is available for greenhouse ornamental production in Canada that has shown potential for effective suppression of difficult-to-control thrips and whitefly species.

But to keep this new tool effective, growers will have to use this chemical wisely. Keep reading for efficacy data on ornamental crops and best management practices for incorporating this chemical into your IPM toolbox.

Ference – a New Registration for Thrips:

For several decades now, there have been few real chemical control options for Western flower thrips in Canadian floriculture, due to this pest’s overwhelming ability to become resistant to chemicals. Further compounding this, the majority of our Western flower thrips populations in greenhouses come from imported cuttings, meaning they can arrive with resistance issues. Chemicals that have given some control of thrips in recent years include DDVP (dichlorvos), Pylon (chlorfenapyr) and sometimes Success (spinosad). But, results vary highly between thrips populations at different farms and on different crops.

Additionally, ALL of the above options essentially wipe out thrips biocontrol programs, being hard on predatory mites (even in sachets). Their use means getting your thrips bio program up and running again can be difficult, and can often put you back on a pesticide “treadmill” for a crop cycle.

However, Ference (i.e. cyantraniliprole; known as Mainspring in the U.S. and Exirel for field crops in Canada), is considered soft on all predatory mites, according to Koppert’s pesticide side-effects database. This makes it a better option for growers who rely on biocontrol to get occasional thrips outbreaks under control. (For details on Ference and it’s application, see the most up-to-date label from Health Canada here).

But does it work??? Although we can’t predict what kind of control Ference will provide across all thrips populations, a recent grower trial (outlined below) suggests it can be effective in certain cases.

Grower Case Study (Ontario):

The Problem: This grower started to see unusual and significant damage to the buds, blooms and some foliage in early February, despite having a robust mite-based biocontrol program. Thrips numbers caught on monitoring cards were higher than usual (Figure 1, below), and there was a lot more variation (difference) in thrips numbers between greenhouse sections (as indicated by the standard error bars in the graph).

Heavy feeding damage (white streaks) and distorted petals caused by thrips feeding at the bud stage on cut chrysanthemums. Foliar damage by thrips can also be seen in the background. Photo courtesy of A. Summerfield (UofG).

Sampling by OMAFRA and University of Guelph student Ashley Summerfield showed that the thrips population was a roughly split between Western flower thrips and onion thrips – a fairly new pest we’ve been seeing in Ontario greenhouses. The presence of high numbers of onion thrips (especially in specific varieties such as “white magnum�� and “feelin’ green”) helps explain why the grower’s usual biocontrol program wasn’t working. (See here and here for more information on onion thrips in ornamentals).

The efficacy of pesticides registered in Canada for thrips control is likely dependent on the species present in your greenhouse, and their source. Thrips pictured here include a female Western flower thrips (left), a female onion thrips (centre) and a male Western flower thrips (right). Photo credit: A. Summerfield (UofG).

The Plan: As mites, nematodes, Beauveria applications and large amounts of mass trapping cards were not providing control, and the damage to the blooms was making many of the flowers unsellable, consultant Graeme Murphy (BioLogical Consulting) suggested quick action with pesticides was needed.

The Outcome:

The grower sprayed successive greenhouse rows until all mum varieties received 2 applications of Ference by mid- March. Thrips numbers began to decrease after all zones received one application (Feb 22nd). Numbers returned to normal levels on the monitoring cards by early March – applications were continued for a period to ensure coverage and continued control.

Conclusions:

In this case, Ference appeared to suppressed all thrips (given the drop in total thrips on cards), with little effect on predatory mites. This allowed remaining mites in sachets to get a foothold again, leading to a success story.

Because this grower had an infestation of both onion thrips and WFT, it’s difficult to determine the efficacy of Ference against either species alone. Our sampling on the second date was likely biased towards onion thrips, as we were focusing on varieties with the most damage. As many chrysanthemum growers in Ontario face a mix of both thrips species anyways, the distinction may be a moot point.

However, it should be noted that this was likely a RESIDENT population of thrips that had been building up within this greenhouse — meaning they may have been more susceptible to chemicals. Thrips populations as a results of weekly importation of cuttings may not see the same effect due to potential resistance. Careful monitoring of thrips numbers and species will be needed when Ference is used to determine it’s efficacy on individual farms.

Ference for Whitefly:

With poinsettia season just around the corner, some of you may recall the chart below from this post regarding effective chemicals for Bemisia whitefly in poinsettia. This data was provided courtesy of researchers in the United States (you can see their full methods and results here). According to their results, Ference stacks up extremely well against other chemical options for Bemisia B-species.

At the time of that posting in Fall 2019, Ference wasn’t yet registered for ornamentals in Canada. As of March of this year, it can now be used in Canada to control whitefly species on indoor and outdoor ornamentals (including cut flowers).

Pesticides Tested

IRAC

Bemisia Control Using Chemicals ONLY

U.S. Trade Name (A.I.) Canadian Name (Status in GH Ornamentals) Nymphs Adults Aria (flonicamid) Beleaf (registered) 9C GOOD GOOD Altus (flupyradifuron) Altus (registered 2018) 4D POOR* FAIR Endeavor (pymetrozine) Endeavor (registered) 9B POOR POOR Kontos (spirotetremat) Kontos (registered) 23 GOOD GOOD Mainspring (Cynatraniliprole) FERENCE (now registered!) 28 EXCELLENT EXCELLENT Safari (dinotefuran) (Not registered in CAN) 4A POOR POOR Ventigra Ventigra (registered 2019) 9D GOOD to EXCELLENT FAIR TO EXCELLENT

*At high curative rates. When lower rates were applied preventively, there was very little suppression compared to the control treatment (water).

Delphastus (the small black beetle in both pictures) is predator of whitefly eggs, and is especially useful for control of Bemisia whitefly in poinsettia crops. However, this biocontrol agent is VERY sensitive to chemicals, including Ferrence.

However, we all know control of Bemisia whitefly, especially in Poinsettia, doesn’t come without a few caveats. Recall these best management practices (which are true EVERY season) to avoid end-of-season whitefly explosions:

Remember that even “new” pesticide registrations may not work on Bemisia species that come in on cuttings. Due to the common practice of heavy pesticide use by poinsettia propagators, and earlier registration in other countries, resistance may already have developed in these populations. If applied early in the season, you may see good knockdown of part of the population (the susceptible part…), but be prepared for follow-up applications to potentially fail.

Because of this, it’s ALWAYS best to start your poinsettia season off with biological control, regardless of the chemical tools in our arsenal. A period of pest management using only natural enemies allows the Bemisia B-species to become dominate over the Q-species (which is far more likely to develop resistance and cross-resistance to chemicals). This means late-season applications of pesticides (if needed) have a better chance of working.

If you do need to turn to pesticides in late September or early October, always start with those “softest” on biological control agents. Otherwise, you’ll have no where to go if chemical applications DON’T work as expected. Unfortunately, according to the Koppert side effects database, Ference (cyantraniliprole) is extremely harmful to Delphastus, a key Bemisia egg predator and option for Bemisia “hot spots”, when applied as a spray. So, this is likely a chemical you’ll want to save as a last resort. No information is available yet on the compatibility of Ference with whitefly parasitoids such as Encaria and Eretmocerus, or it’s compatibility with biocontrol agents when applied as a drench (although this generally tends be a softer application method).

The Bottom Line:

To conclude this post, I want you to all hearken back to the days when Success (spinosad) and Intercept (imidacloprid) first came on the market for ornamental growers in Canada. What silver bullets they were going to be! Our pest problems will melt away! Huzzah!

Unfortunately, we know how those stories ended. Resistance to Success developed in Western flower thrips populations in under 6 months… Intercept was only effective for Bemisia whitefly on Poinsettia for a few seasons. And heavy use of both of these disrupted biocontrol programs.

Even IF Ference works on Bemisa this year, and continues to suppress thrips populations, resistance is a real threat with both of these pests. And, although compatible with mites, Ference may disrupt parasitoids or other biocontrol agents. Growers will have to be judicious in their use, and save this product for when pest suppression is a REAL necessity (i.e. sales are realistically threatened by damage or pest pressure). Otherwise, we’ll be back to where we started – without any real chemical tools in our tool belts for two of our most serious pests.

Thank you to the growers and consultants who shared data to make this post possible, as well as to A. Summerfield (University of Guelph) for helping with sample collection and identifying all thrips species.

New Chemical Control Option for Thrips and Whitefly published first on https://yeuhoavn.tumblr.com/

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wallpapernifty · 4 years

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whoinwhoville · 7 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Doctor Who (2005) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Lee McAvoy/Donna Noble, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler Characters: Donna Noble, Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Sylvia Noble Additional Tags: Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Fluff, it's so fluffy I'm gonna die, Crack, maybe? - Freeform, Wedding, wedding florist and photographer au, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, mean sylvia, rude sylvia, over-the-top sylvia, pre-romance ten x rose Series: Part 14 of I love AUs Summary:

Sylvia Noble: Mother-of-the-Bridezilla. But Donna, Rose, and Jonathan Smith are quite adept at standing up for themselves.

Response to this fic prompt: I’m the caterer and you’re the florist on a huge expensive wedding and we bond over what an awful person the mother of the bride is AU (with a few adjustments to the prompt).

“That dress does nothing for your figure. You look like a wedding cake topper. What do you need pockets for, anyway? Frosted coral lipstick? I don’t know why you even need a new dress. The one you wore to your first wedding was gorgeous.”

“Purple and lavender? You know I don’t wear purple. I simply won’t. It is the colour of mourning. But then again, I am in mourning over this marriage.” (sniff sniff)

“Cupcakes? Really Donna. I know money is tight, but that’s going too far.”

“This reception hall is in a very rough part of town. No one is going to dare to go to the reception! Afraid their cars will get nicked. Pick someplace else.”

“You can afford an open bar, but you are serving frozen starters from Tesco. You haven’t even hired a proper caterer.”

“You are going to need more fairy lights to brighten up this dismal reception hall. At least you found a location in a safe part of town. But I can’t see my hand in front of my—“

“I. Have. Had. ENOUGH! I don’t want your help. And I certainly don’t need it!“

“But darling, it’s only three months away! And I have so much to do!”

“I am taking care of everything, and am doing a bloody good job of it, too.”

oOo

“Donna Noble, you will not sign that contract. She has no experience! The flowers will be a disgrace. I will not have my garden club friends gossiping because you carried a bouquet of food-colouring-dyed pink carnations! If you choose Rosie’s Posie’s, I’m withdrawing my support of your marriage.”

“Your support? What do you mean by support? You’re not the one shelling out the money for my wedding! Lee and I are paying for it! And as for support, you supported Lance. Even after you found out that he was a two-timing, cheating arse! You got angry with me after he left me at the altar! Support my third foot.”

“Lance has ambition! He’s going places! I saw him at the market the other day. No ring on his finger, Donna. There’s still a chance. Call him. Apologise.”

“Apologise for what? For not inviting him to the reception?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You’re making the mistake of your life. Lee owns a fishing tackle shop. No one goes fishing anymore. Do you really think there is a future in tying flies?”

“Lee is a good man and we love each other, and I’m getting married whether you support me or not!”

Donna squinted at her mother, and with a toss of her glorious ginger hair, signed the florist’s contract, even adding a smiley-face at the end of her name.

Sylvia stood slowly. “Goodbye Donna.” She sniffed. “Come and see me sometime, maybe when you’ve decided to stop being so hurtful.” The blonde woman gathered her things, wiped an imaginary tear from her eye, and quietly left her daughter’s flat.

Rose Tyler, the forgotten third person in the room, cleared her throat. “Right. Um, thanks. We can go over the details when you’re ready. Why don’t you call me—“

“No. We’ll do it now, Rose. Your designs are exquisite. First thing I want to order: a food-colouring-dyed Carnation corsage for my mother-of-the-bridezilla.”

Rose’s eyes went wide, and then she snorted a laugh.

oOo

“I forbid you to hire that person, Donna Noble. That man is a farce! He isn’t even a professional photographer! He’s a professor! You’ll regret it every time you open your wedding album and all you see are 1970’s starbursts on the candle flames and out of focus pictures with half of your face cut off. And his idea of creativity is probably photoshopping you with angel wings in a field of stars, being he’s an astronomy teacher. What a useless degree that is. If you hire Professor Smyth, I’m withdrawing my support of your marriage.”

“Again with the support. Jonathan is brilliant. He’s a genius. He’s photographed the weddings of royalty!”

“Ha! Queen Victoria’s great-great grandniece twice removed doesn’t count as royalty. You’ve only chosen him because he’s your employer. He’s told you he’ll fire you if you don’t hire him, hasn’t he?”

“No! And I’m not hiring him. It’s his wedding gift.”

“Well, you’d be better off if he bought you towels.”

oOo

“So, what do you think, then?” Rose asked. “Is this what you were thinking of?”

“Rose, these designs are perfect! It’s like you can read my mind. And you’re sure you can do this for the contracted price?”

“Yeah. I have a great supplier. Now, it’s possible that I won’t be able to get the Lily of the Valley. Sometimes it’s scarce, but I have a backup plan. I’m going to force Paperwhite Narcissus. They’ll be gorgeous with the purple crocus and lavender hyacinth. But the purple and white tulips will be the centerpiece of your bouquet. Would you like any iris?”

“Whatever you come up with will be perfect.”

Rose blushed and bit her lip. “Thanks for giving me a chance, Donna, this being my first wedding job and all. Who recommended me?”

“My boss bought me an arrangement a while back. I remembered it.”

“What did it look like?”

“Yellow roses, daisies, and chrysanthemums in a yellow smiley-face mug.”

“I remember that order. The mug was delivered to my shop with instructions to make an arrangement that matched. That he had a friend that needed a cheer-up.”

Donna smiled wistfully. “That was right after the Lance… thing. And yeah, it did cheer me up. It’s my favourite mug.”

Rose gently squeezed Donna’s arm. “From what you’ve said, good riddance, yeah? Lee is just about perfect.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

oOo

“Anything special you’d like? Any particular shots?”

“I have a list of all of the standard group shots, but mainly we want to remember our day in a more casual way. Candids.”

“Good. That’s what I like to shoot best. Well, stars are my favourite thing to photograph, of course. How about a few pictures outside? There’s going to be a full moon that night.”

“Sounds perfect.”

oOo

Rose parked as close to the church as she could manage, but it was still several hundred feet away. Her boot, the back seat, and the front of her red VW Beetle were jam-packed with flowers. She wasn’t wearing her usual work clothes — jeans, trainers, and a t-shirt. She and Donna had struck up a friendship, and Donna had invited her to the wedding. Rose almost lost her balance as the heels of her precarious stilettos dug into the gravel of the church yard. “Shoulda brought trainers,” she grumbled as she picked up the first flat of arrangements — the boutonnieres and corsages.

“Oh! Let me help!” called a friendly voice.

“Thanks. I’m running a bit late. Got stuck behind a crash on the way and traffic was backed up for miles. How do you know Donna?”

“She’s my assistant. You know, I ordered flowers from you for Donna a while back.”

“Thanks for that. Donna hired me because of you. What’s your name again?”

“Jonathan Smyth.”

“Hello Jonathan. I’m Rose Tyler. Since you offered, I’m going to put you to work.”

oOo

“Donna, I take back everything I said about Rosie’s Posies. She did a lovely job. Now where’s my corsage.”

She presented her mother with a white box.

“Why’s this box so big?” Sylvia asked as she lifted the lid. “What in blazes is this abomination?”

“You did say you were expecting dyed carnations. Rose’s assistant left the flowers in the purple dye too long and they’re almost black. We’ll call it aubergine.”

“I refuse to wear this hideous thing! It’s six inches across! It’ll block my face!”

“No no no! You don’t pin it to your dress. It’s a wristlet! See?”

“It looks like a ruffled Frisbee. Ridiculous.” Sylvia sneered as she pinched the enormous corsage with her fingertips as if it were a dirty nappy.

“Go on then, put it on. I want to see how it looks. I designed it myself.” Donna grinned.

“No. I refuse.” Sylvia tipped her nose into the air.

“It’s my wedding, and you’ll wear the bloody wristlet.”

“I’m withdrawing my support.”

“Support or no support, it’s my wedding. Put the thing on.”

Sylvia hissed as she slipped the enormous floral accessory onto her wrist.

oOo

Jonathan hid outside of the doorway, trying to contain his laughter as he set the camera to slow burst, taking shot after shot. He heard someone else laughing behind him.

“Did Donna really ask for that flower thing for her mother?”

“Donna’s takin’ the mick. I have the real one. She’s gonna give it to her mum right before Sylvia’s ushered to her seat. Isn’t it hideous?”

He grinned at her. “I think it’s absolutely brilliant.” He made a funny little happy noise. “Has Sylvia been difficult to work with?”

“Difficult? There’s no word that describes how difficult. She’s the mother-of-the-bride version of a bridezilla.”

“She gave me a list of about 500 formal family photo configurations. Mother with daughter, mother in chair. Mother with bride and bride in chair. Father and mother with bride, bride in chair holding her flowers in her lap. And then without flowers in her lap. Mother with bride’s flowers. Bride sitting on the steps with bridesmaid’s flowers ‘pillowed’ around her feet. Pillowed. How do you pillow flowers. Wouldn’t be very comfortable to sleep on,” he whinged. “And don’t get me started on the cousins, aunts, uncles, step uncles, step aunts, half cousins, and then Lee’s family and all of those iterations.” He pinched the bridge his nose.

Rose picked at her already-chipped pink nail polish. “I’m done with the flowers. I could, I don’t know, help round up and arrange the people? You did help me set up the flowers, after all.”

“I’d love that. Thank you, Rose Tyler.”

oOo

Jonathan’s pointer finger was sore. It was ten pm, and the dancing was still going in full force, thanks to the unlimited drinks being pouring liberally by the bartender.

“Jonathan, I think you’ve taken enough photos,” Donna said kindly.

“Can never be too thorough. I don’t want you to miss a single moment.”

“Oh, believe me, I won’t forget one thing about this wedding.” She snorted a laugh. “Don’t know that my mum is ever going to forgive me for that corsage. It was pretty awful, wasn’t it?”

“Donna, it was perfect.”

“Ha! Serves her right, saying all of those awful things about you and Rose.” She took a sip of champagne. “She did like the real one though. Doubt she’ll ever forgive me.” Donna took another sip of champagne. “So, what do you think of Rose?”

“She’s very talented.”

“Bloody right, she is. Started that florist business all on her own. You know how much I loved those flowers you gave me. How’d you find her, anyway?”

“Yelp. Read the reviews. One review stood out, though. Can’t go wrong with the username Old-Man-With-a-Telescope.”

“Hold on. That’s Grandad’s email address. I set it up for him so he could email those star pictures he takes through his telescope. What a coincidence.”

“There are no coincidences, Donna Noble.”

“Come to think of it, he brought me a bouquet of flowers after Lance,” she mused. “Must’ve bought ‘em from Rose.”

Jonathan squinted and looked off in the distance. “His name is Wilf, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I knew I recognized him from somewhere. It’s been niggling at me all night. He’s been coming to my planetarium shows for years! Always asks the best questions! Emails me his pictures from that email address.”

“That seals it. You were destined to meet Rose. Now why don’t you go and ask her for a dance.”

“I think that is a brilliant idea.”

She yawned. “Oh, Lee is back from saying goodbye to his family. Time to head out. Please. No pictures. I want to sneak away. Would rather avoid another confrontation with Sylvia.” She snorted.

“That won’t do, Donna! You want to remember your clandestine getaway, don’t you?”

Donna pulled her friend into a hug. “Jonathan, thank you. For everything. For putting up with my mother, for the gift. For being a great friend. And for being a great boss.”

“Donna Noble. You are brilliant. Now go. I’ll create a diversion. See you in two weeks.”

“Two? I only scheduled help for one week.”

“I’ve already arranged a temp. And the break is paid.”

oOo

It was the last dance, and Jonathan and Rose were the only couple left. Her shoes were off, she was leaning on his shoulder, almost asleep. They weren’t really dancing so much as swaying in place to a slow song — Frank Sinatra singing The Way You Look Tonight. It wasn’t really a romantic moment — more a mutual sigh of relief.

“You really do have a way with flowers,” Jonathan complimented.

“I suppose I was destined to work with flowers, given my name and all.”

“You could do anything and be fantastic at it, I think. And speaking of destiny, how’s this… Donna’s grandfather, Wilf, bought Donna flowers from your shop after her fortuitous breakup with that wholly unacceptable Lance bloke. I wanted to buy her flowers, too, so I Yelped, and found your shop. I read a frankly glorious review — and it turns out it was written by Donna’s Grandad. So I sent Donna flowers, and she was so impressed that she hired you to do her wedding. And here I am. And here you are.”

“Mmmm hmmm. Here we are,” she said contentedly. Beginning of a beautiful friendship, I think. I think we should collaborate again.”

“Oh, I do believe that’ll happen sooner than you think.”

oOo

“Donna Noble-McAvoy! These pictures are completely unacceptable! How in the world did that amateur photographer think it was even remotely appropriate to include that florist in almost every single picture! And look at this album! It’s absolutely hideous! It’s for a five year old! My Little Pony…” She slammed the album shut. “I demand that you ask for your money back!”

Donna snorted a laugh. “Mother, you are just too easy. You really need to learn how to take a joke. Here.” She handed an elegant white leather album to her mother. “Here’s the real one.”

Sylvia opened the book with a disdainful sniff. But then her face softened. “Donna… You’re beautiful. Oh, my baby girl.” She pulled her daughter in a hug, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”

#ten x rose #Lee x donna #wedding au #sylvia noble #crack #fluff #i wrote this #ficandchips #pre romance

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wendyimmiller · 4 years

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The Domoto Legacy: Plants and Immigration

Such was the size of the nursery operation that the San Francisco Call Bulletin in 1913 called the Domoto Brothers Nursery the largest in the state. Photo Credit: https://50objects.org/object/the-domoto-maple-bonsai-part-i/

We are pleased to present Eric Hsu’s first Guest Rant.

When I was growing up, the narrative of North American horticulture, especially ornamental horticulture, was through the prism of a Euro-centric, if not Anglophilic lens. It was not through the perspective of an immigrant one. There was little or no acknowledgment of horticultural legacy that immigrants left in the U.S., even in the annals of horticultural history in my university curriculum. What I learned instead was how early American botanists and nurserymen fulfilled the British hunger for New World plants, especially its trees and shrubs in the 18th century, or the popularity of Japanese plants was closely tied to the Japonisme, the craze for Japanese arts and culture in western Europe and United States. Whether for the prevailing xenophobic attitudes, lack of documentation, or its perceived irrelevance in history, the contributions of immigrant communities have not been acknowledged consistently in a significant way. Last year on my trip to visit gardens and nurseries in the Bay Area, I learned that the old greenhouse ranges we spotted in Richmond were once used for growing roses and carnations. The greenhouses had a sad, forlorn, look of what once had been thriving businesses, although the glimpse of a few roses growing and flowering against such adversity was a bright moment. However, it scarcely occurred to me to connect these greenhouses with the Japanese American community.

Toichi Domoto set up his 26-acre nursery across the San Francisco Bay in Hayward after returning from his studies at University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign in 1926. He would continue the rest of his life at the nursery, devoted to breeding camellias, tree peonies, and flowering quince (Chaenomeles). Photo Credit: Courtesy of Domoto Family from A Japanese-American Nurseryman’s Life in California: Floriculture and Family, 1883-1992.

Asian immigrants, especially Japanese Americans, in California oversaw farms and nurseries because these economic endeavors thought to be less threatening to whites. In Northern California, the East Bay and the current ‘Silicon Valley’ (San Mateo, Mountain View, Redwood City), became the hubs for these horticultural businesses since real estate was (and still is today) expensive in San Francisco. With its sunny days and cool nights, the climate was ideal for growing plants. In addition, the expansion of the railroad system in the region meant convenient and direct links to San Francisco where sales were conducted.

Kanetaro Domoto, the co-proprietor of the Domoto Brothers Nursery and father of Toichi Domoto, immigrated with his brothers from Wakayama, Japan and purchased land for the nursery in 1902. Kanetaro and his brothers were able to own land before the Alien Land of 1913, which forbade immigrants from property ownership, took effect. Photo Credit: Courtesy of Domoto Family from https://50objects.org/object/the-domoto-maple-bonsai-part-i/

Among the Japanese American nurseries in the Bay Area that caught my attention was the largest and most influential one, the Domoto Nursery. Whereas other nurseries were largely preoccupied with growing cut flowers like chrysanthemums, roses, and carnations, the Domoto Nursery was one of the few concentrating on ornamental plants for gardens and landscapes. It too was a major conduit through which plants new to American horticulture were introduced and popularized. Kanetaro and Takanoshin Domoto, the two brothers who immigrated from Wakayama, Japan, had started the business in 1885. The Domoto Nursery soon gained the nickname ‘Domoto College’ for the multitude of young men trained and employed there before opening their businesses as well. At its height, the nursery spanned 40 acres; the San Francisco Call in February 1912 noted that the greenhouses covered 230,000 square feet and the shed 300,000 square feet. The economic woes of the Great Depression severely affected the Domoto Nursery, leading to its foreclosure and its re-possession of the land in 1936 by the city of Oakland. If Kanetaro was concerned about the nursery’s legacy consigned to anonymity of time, he hadn’t need to worry. His eldest son Toichi carried on the family tradition, cementing the Domoto name farther into history.

Nursery and Seed Trade Catalog Collection

Raised in the family business from a young age, Toichi never envisioned that he would follow his father into the same profession. He had gone to Stanford University in 1921 to study mechanical engineering, but later transferred to University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign for horticulture. Toichi had realized that career opportunities outside of the agricultural and horticultural industry were limited to those of Asian ancestry. Reflecting upon his childhood among the plants, he said matter-of-factly, if not a bit resignedly: “For me that’s all there was to do. When I was small, I played in the Domoto Bros nursery. As I grew up in the nursery. Later I started my nursery.”

Among the plants that the Domoto Brothers Nursery grew and sold were more than 200 varieties of chrysanthemum. The woodprint illustration of this pink and white chrysanthemum is from the Japanese nursery, which the Domoto Brothers Nursery used to import plants regularly for their business. Photo Credit: USDA National Agricultural Library’s Henry G. Gilbert Nursery and Seed Trade Catalog Collection

When Toichi returned to California in 1926 after college, he purchased 26 acres in Hayward to start his nursery. The site was ideal for its water and fertile soil while the real estate prices were affordable. Through a series of bartering for building materials and plants and financing from the principal, Toichi slowly built his nursery from the ground up (during the Depression, he had less than three dollars some days to feed his family from his selling gladiolus flowers in San Francisco; food was scarce). However, the nursery’s development was sadly interrupted when the US President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed the Executive Order 9066 that ordained the internment of German, Italian, and Japanese Americans in camps. Sensing the imminent arrival of authorities for their forced relocation, the Domotos left the nursery in the care of an employee and moved inland to Livingston in hopes of delaying their inevitable transfer to the camp. Eventually the family was split up, with some in Amache Relocation Center in Colorado and a few returning to Japan. His father, already broken emotionally from the foreclosure of Domoto Nursery, later died at camp, as did another uncle who had been relocated to Milwaukee. Released momentarily through a sympathetic camp administrator, Toichi had to pay a guard to escort their ashes to the family gravesite in California.

The 1896 catalog of Domoto Brothers Nursery featuring ‘Pride of Japan’, which features roses, chrysanthemums, pelargoniums, palms and ferns, tree peonies etc. in its pages. Photo Credit: USDA National Arboretum Agricultural Library’s Henry G. Gilbert Nursery and Seed Trade Catalog Collection.

With time for breeding and propagating squandered to internment, Toichi recovered what he had lost and reassumed the nursery work. Because anti-Japanese sentiment was still high after WWII, he was considerate of his presence affecting the business of the nurseries he sought for plants. The plant orders were retrieved early mornings before the nurseries were open for their customers; for instance, his truck would arrive promptly at 6 am to pick up the camellias from Nuccios Nurseries, which was a ten-hour round trip from Hayward to Altadena and back.

Toichi and Alice Domoto who married in August 1940. Together they had two children, Marilyn and Douglas. Marilyn later taught Japanese after doing a two-year study aboard program in Japan while at Stanford, and later studying it in Columbia. Douglas become a doctor based in St. Louis, Missouri. Courtesy of Domoto Family from A Japanese-American Nurseryman’s Life in California: Floriculture and Family, 1883-1992.

One silver lining of being away in internment camp was that the seedlings in the peony fields (5-acres) had matured and were flowering, allowing Toichi to evaluate and keep the promising ones. When Toichi began to concentrate on tree peonies, breeding them was still in its infancy. Although tree peonies could be easily bought from nurseries, they were largely imported from Japan and Europe where flowering plants could be bought inexpensively and marked up once arrived in US. The few people engaged in hybridizing and selecting tree peonies commenced their programs around the same time Toichi became interested; among them was Professor A.P Saunders, still regarded the most successful and prolific breeder of peonies who only named 1 percent of his seedlings, whom Toichi corresponded in letters. Saunders was encouraging of his efforts: ‘You’re a young man yet. Plant as many seeds as you can, and see what you get.” Another individual was Roy Klehm who graciously advised on propagation difficulties, especially with grafting since Toichi was experiencing problems with poor quality rootstocks. Klehm himself had visited the peony fields at the Hayward nursery. In addition to the tree peonies acquired from Japan, Toichi imported the yellow peonies from Victor Lemoine of Lorraine, France; Lemoine had crossed Paeonia lutea with Paeonia suffruticosa to broaden the color range and his cultivars, like ‘Alice Harding’ and ‘Chromatella’ are still cultivated today. Most of the tree peonies today attributed to Toichi’s breeding were named and registered by Roy Klehm, but the best one ‘Toichi Ruby’ has won superlatives from tree peony fanciers for its rich rose red color, fragrance, and clean foliage.

Camellia reticulata ‘Captain Rawes’ was the first reticulata camellia introduced to Europe in 1820 and when the plant flowered a few years later, it was used as the type specimen to describe the species. Toichi Domoto was the first to import ‘Captain Rawes’ from the Hillier Nurseries, Winchester, UK, succeeding only on the second attempt with grafted plants.

Given their slow maturity and lengthy propagation, tree peonies alone were not lucrative for the nursery to sustain itself. Camellias became the bread and butter because they were becoming popular as plants and cut flowers (camellia corsages accounted for a portion of the nursery income during the first three to four years). One of Domoto’s significant introductions to US for his breeding was Camellia reticulata‘Captain Rawes’, which had been grown in Europe for over a century by that time. Imported from China by its namesake to UK, ‘Captain Rawes’ did not flower in a greenhouse until 1826. This plant became the type specimen (the sample that taxonomists use to describe a new species) on which the botanist John Lindley recognized Camellia reticulata in the Botanical Register (1827). In 1936, Domoto imported scions of ‘Captain Rawes’ from the Hiller Nurseries, Winchester, UK, but his grafts nearly all failed, forcing him to request another shipment of grafted plants instead. Seeing that the grafted plants from Hillier’s were side and whip grafts rather than the cleft grafts popular in US, Domoto broadened his perspective on grafting camellias. Reticulata camellias are uncommon in gardens, given their large size (plants can reach up to 50’ in the wild), propagation difficulties, and winter hardiness. When pressed for these camellias’ lack of popularity, Domoto remarked: ‘It’s a big flower, and it’s a rangy-looking plant. You really don’t get the full impact of these varieties until the plant gets good-sized, in order to make any show’. He had hoped to capitalize on their brief popularity but was unable to produce saleable plants in time. On the other hand, his work with the fall-flowering Camellia sasanqua was successful. Its smaller and tighter growth, evergreen foliage, and vibrant flower colors were attractive attributes that possessed enormous potential for good garden plants. ‘Dwarf Shishi’, a seedling of the well-known ‘Shisi-Gashira’, was acclaimed for its compact, slow growth and large dark pink flowers.

The camellia listings by color in Domoto Nursery (Hayward) wholesale list. Photo Credit: USDA National Arboretum Agricultural Library’s Henry G. Gilbert Nursery and Seed Trade Catalog Collection.

Toichi continued to work with camellias throughout his life, and one of his lifelong friendships was with Julius Nuccio, the co-proprietor of Nuccios’ Nurseries in Altadena, California. Julius and his brother Joe were Italian Americans who developed a burgeoning interest in azaleas and camellias from their parents’ back garden into a full-fledged 40-acre nursery. Julius and Toichi had met through a mutual friend who was a train express messenger fanatical about camellias. When Julius and his wife traveled up to San Francisco, Toichi and Alice would entertain them at their home –likewise the Nuccios would reciprocate the hospitality in Los Angeles. Decades later Toichi still recalls the boisterous Italian American dinner that Julius’s mother had prepared, calling it the best Italian dinner he and his wife had eaten. When pressed for possible cultural misunderstandings between the Japanese Americans and Italian Americans, Toichi acknowledged the potential for conflict, but pointed that both groups were on equal footing due to their mutual experiences they faced from discrimination. In fact, Julius’s childhood neighbors were Japanese, and there were frequent shared meals at each other homes. Today Nuccio’s Nurseries sells a seedling named after its namesake breeder ‘Toichi Domoto’, a formal double rose pink flower with dark pink stripes.

A selection of camellia flowers featured in the Domoto Nursery (Hayward) catalog. Photo Credit: USDA National Arboretum Agricultural Library’s Henry G. Gilbert Nursery and Seed Trade Catalog Collection.

Toichi’s friendship with the Nuccio family was reflective of his generous and sociable personality that made him an ascendant star in the Californian gardening scene. The respect accorded to his knowledge and ease of working with people were affirmed when in 1957 Domoto was appointed the president of the California Horticultural Society, which counted several influential Californian horticulturists and nursery people among its members. Some of these members included Walter Bosworth (W.B.) Clarke whose breeding, selection, and propagation of woody plants, like his namesake Prunus mume and magnolias at the San Jose nursery enriched gardens, San Francisco-based plantsman and nurseryman Victor Reiter of Geranium pratense ‘Midnight Reiter’, Golden Gate Park director Roy Hudson and director of Strybing Arboretum (now SF Botanical Garden) Eric Walther. The society was formed to gather and compare information on hardiness after the Great Freeze of 1932, which caused widespread losses of specimen plants and collections in gardens. At the jovial society meetings, the members would bring in new plants, discuss their growing requirements and their use in gardens and parks. Domoto provided valuable insights as he was outside of the cool ‘fog belt’ of San Francisco where some members resided, and he stepped in with specimen plants for the society’s annual exhibit at the Oakland Spring Garden Show. The Californian Horticultural Society (https://calhortsociety.org) still exists and holds their monthly meetings at the San Francisco County Fair Building.

If there was one social activity that Toichi refrained from partaking, it was visiting the gardens of his customers, many of whom were wealthy and enthusiastic about plants. He felt strongly that gardens were private domains, not vehicles for ego: “[A] person puts a garden in and you don’t like to have every Tom, Dick and Harry. The thing is, that the people that you should like to have come in are the ones that respect that. The ones that you would just as soon not come in are the most brazen that come in.” The one garden that Toichi did have a close professional relationship with was the country estate of Mr. William P. Roth and Mrs. Lurline Matson Roth, heiress to the Matson Navigation Company, Filoli. Enlisted by the previous owners the Bourns who had built the estate, the landscape designer Bruce Porter already had laid out the formal garden between 1917 and 1922; Isabella Worn the horticulturist oversaw the plantings and their maintenance. When Mrs. Roth later became more interested in azaleas, camellias, and rhododendrons, she had Worn visit Domoto Brothers and later Toichi’s Hayward nursery to select and pick up plants. It was through Toichi on his first visit to Filoli did Mrs. Roth reveal her desire to see Filoli preserved as a public garden. Mrs. Roth’s confession and acknowledgement of her mortality may have encouraged him to consider the future of his nursery.

When Toichi realized that his two children, Marilyn and Douglas, were not interested in inheriting the nursery, he began to downsize his business by phasing out his nursery stock. Several dozen camellia seedlings were sent to Nuccio’s Nurseries for evaluation. Downsizing the nursery proved wise because he was able to relax unburdened and maintain his passions in breeding plants. His energies never faltered into his nonagenerian years, although health issues later forced more confinement in bed at home. Every morning at 5 am, he would wake up and go about his routine watering, feeding the cats, reading the newspapers and magazines.

Toichi Domoto captured during the 1992 oral interview, graciously funded by his colleagues and oversaw by the oral history recorder Suzanne Riess. A Japanese-American Nurseryman’s Life in California: Floriculture and Family, 1883-1992.

For someone who experienced racial and societal injustices, Toichi Domoto was remarkably gracious and optimistic. He betrayed no hint of anger or bitterness when reflecting on his significant achievement, which was anything but horticultural:

“Having gotten along with my friends in life, and having gained their respect. I feel that more than anything else, human relations…But the fact that I got to know certain people real well, intimately, so that regardless of their color or race or religion, I knew them as a person, I think that was—those are the two things that I really cherish more than anything else.”

Domoto poignantly added: “When you are out working with plants and flowers, you can’t have hate in your heart.”

Eric Hsu is a writer (his blog is www.plinthetal.com) and gardener with interests in bulbs and woody plants; in addition he is the plant information coordinator at Chanticleer.

Growing Community: Pioneers of the Japanese American Floral Industry. Retrieved August 1, 2020 from www.janurseries.com

Toichi Domoto, “A Japanese-American Nurseryman’s Life in California: Floriculture and Family, 1883-1992,” an oral history conducted in 1992 by Suzanne B. Riess, Regional Oral History Office, The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley, 1993.

Nuccio. J. (1995). A tribute to Toichi Domoto. The Camellia Review 57(2): 10-11.

Schmidt, W. (1969). Toichi Domoto, Nurseryman: Over sixty years’ experience with flowers. California Horticultural Journal 30: 66-73.

Ukai, N. (n.d.). The Domoto Maple: Bonsai Part I. Retrieved August 4, 2020, from The Domato Maple: Bonsai: Part I.

The Domoto Legacy: Plants and Immigration originally appeared on GardenRant on August 12, 2020.

The post The Domoto Legacy: Plants and Immigration appeared first on GardenRant.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2020/08/the-domoto-legacy-plants-and-immigration.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

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turfandlawncare · 4 years

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The Domoto Legacy: Plants and Immigration

Such was the size of the nursery operation that the San Francisco Call Bulletin in 1913 called the Domoto Brothers Nursery the largest in the state. Photo Credit: https://ift.tt/3gSpNq5

Nursery and Seed Trade Catalog Collection

The camellia listings by color in Domoto Nursery (Hayward) wholesale list. Photo Credit: USDA National Arboretum Agricultural Library’s Henry G. Gilbert Nursery and Seed Trade Catalog Collection.

Domoto poignantly added: “When you are out working with plants and flowers, you can’t have hate in your heart.”

Eric Hsu is a writer (his blog is www.plinthetal.com) and gardener with interests in bulbs and woody plants; in addition he is the plant information coordinator at Chanticleer.

Growing Community: Pioneers of the Japanese American Floral Industry. Retrieved August 1, 2020 from www.janurseries.com

Nuccio. J. (1995). A tribute to Toichi Domoto. The Camellia Review 57(2): 10-11.

Schmidt, W. (1969). Toichi Domoto, Nurseryman: Over sixty years’ experience with flowers. California Horticultural Journal 30: 66-73.

Ukai, N. (n.d.). The Domoto Maple: Bonsai Part I. Retrieved August 4, 2020, from The Domato Maple: Bosai: Part I

The Domoto Legacy: Plants and Immigration originally appeared on GardenRant on August 12, 2020.

The post The Domoto Legacy: Plants and Immigration appeared first on GardenRant.

from GardenRant https://ift.tt/2PNCir0

#GardenRant

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scootoaster · 5 years

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The tricks to keeping flower arrangements gorgeous for as long as possible

The prettiest arrangements are properly conditioned and hydrated. (Princeton Architectural Press/)

Bringing flowers home from the shop or plucking them from your garden is just the first step in keeping them fresh and lovely in your home. But taking care of a floral arrangement is more than just filling up a pretty bowl with water. You’ve got to care for your plants by protecting them from bacterial growth and wilting through a step called conditioning.

Luckily, you don’t need to be an expert florist to make your bouquets last as long as possible—and in some cases, all you’ll need is a cotton ball or a teaspoon of sugar.

Cultivated: The Elements of Floral Style, out next week, provides the perfect guide to arranging and maintaining your blooms, and some gorgeous photos for inspiration.

The following is an excerpt adapted from Cultivated: The Elements of Floral Style by Christin Geall.

Conditioning Flowers

The professional term for postharvest care of flowers is conditioning. In commercial applications, conditioning usually involves a clean cut once the flowers have come in from the field and a resting period in water to which a chemical hydrator and/or a nutrient-based product have been added to encourage flower development. Often an antibacterial agent is used, as well.

The principles of conditioning are important to understand, whether you grow your own flowers or purchase them. If your flowers have been conditioned properly, they won’t wilt when you bring them indoors, nor be half as thirsty in the vase. However, every type of flower has unique tastes and predilections, so I’ll start with some basic principles and get more specific as we go.

Clean water is of the utmost importance. Tepid is better than cold.

Cultivated is out on March 24, 2020. (Princeton Architectural Press/)

When you come home from the shop or in from the garden, strip the lower leaves from stems. Leaves continue to transpire (give off water vapor) after a flower has been cut, so keep only those necessary to your work. In some cases, such as with lilacs, it’s best to remove them all.

Different types of flower stems should be treated differently at this stage. The British Florist Association has a handy guide online covering hearty stems, hollow stems, woody ones, milky ones, and so on. Generally speaking, hollow stems (such of those of delphiniums) should be filled with water and plugged using a cotton ball and an elastic. Lupines and amaryllises also have hollow stems and heavy heads, so it’s wise to support the flower with a prop. Floral maven Sarah Raven recommends using bamboo cane (I’ve used barbecue skewers too), as an insert. Fill the stem with water, place the support inside, trim it to length, and then stuff cotton wool into the hole. Wrap an elastic around the base to hold the whole thing together. Although this might seem tiresome, you’ll be thankful you did it.

If you are using woody stems, slit them, score them with an x, or smash them with a hammer at their base to allow the stems to absorb more water. Shrubs, blossoming branches, chrysanthemums, and roses all qualify as woody.

The stems of spring bulbs like tulips and hyacinths may have a white portion that doesn’t absorb water, so trim this off. Narcissi (daffodils) exude a slimy sap after cutting. Change the water repeatedly before arranging.

Many soft-stemmed plants benefit from a hot-water dip. This method damages the cell walls of stems and allows the cut flower to take up water. Dip about 10 percent of the stem length for about twenty seconds in freshly boiled water, being careful not to steam yourself or the flower. I keep an electric kettle in my studio for opium poppies, Cerinthe, and euphorbias. You can try this method with wilted roses, too, adding a teaspoon of sugar to the water they rest in after searing. In a few hours, they may revive.

Another method for quickly treating sappy stems is to burn them. This damages the stem so it can absorb water and also seals it off, preventing wilting. If I have a small number of Icelandic poppies, I’ll simply sear the stems with a barbecue lighter. Flower farmers use propane blowtorches. Just run the flame along the lower portion of the stem until it goes semi-transparent and the sap bubbles and burns a bit at the cut end of the stem.

Foliage can be revived just as you might lettuce for a salad. Place the leaves in a cool bath, then shake off excess water and store them at a low temperature to perk.

After whatever special treatment you’ve doled out (the requirements of each type of flower can be a bit intimidating, but you learn them over time), leave your flowers to rest in deep water, in a cool place away from direct sunlight. Try to leave them for a few hours or overnight before arranging.

Carefully top up your vessel with water after arranging; use a small watering can for fitting in between stems.

Remember to keep your arrangement away from sun and heat.

Keeping Flowers Fresh

Every living thing carries a microbiome, flowers included. In vase water, bacteria propagate, feeding off their primary food source—the cut ends of stems. The stems degrade eventually (giving old vase water that special swampy stench), but before that point the bacteria clog your plant’s stem capillaries, preventing them from taking up water and shortening the vase life of your flowers. This is why freshly cutting stems is often recommended to prolong the life of flowers.

I religiously change water daily and advise my customers to do the same. If the water can’t be poured out easily, just run fresh water into the flowers to flush.

Additives can also help. Sarah Raven advises, “What cut flowers need is a balance of sugars that can be utilized for metabolism, a substance to raise the acidity of the water and an antibacterial agent. Commercial sachets of cut-flower food contain agents for all three.”

If you don’t have “flower powder” or if you eschew plastic packages or those mysterious substances known as “agents,” you can, as Raven suggests, improvise with a teaspoon of sugar and a couple drops of bleach. I’ve also heard vodka can work to slow the growth of bacteria.

If I seem reluctant to advocate specific products or potions, it’s because each type of flower has its own response to various substances (astilbes, aye to alcohol; Asclepias, yea to sugar), and the level of detail involved in itemizing who loves what could crush your enthusiasm. If, however, you’re one of those conscientious people who like to be armed with all the facts, seek out “Conditioning Flowers,” a wonderful flower-by-flower online list of management and care compiled by the garden club of Brookfield, Connecticut. Sarah Raven also offers detailed advice in her now-classic 1996 book “The Cutting Garden”. I highly recommend it.

Excerpted from Cultivated by Christin Geall, published by Princeton Architectural Press. Reprinted with permission. All other rights reserved.

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liaflowerwall · 5 years

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Sunflowers And Lavender – 5 Solid Evidences Attending Sunflowers And Lavender Is Good For Your Career Development

Sunflowers And Lavender – 5 Solid Evidences Attending Sunflowers And Lavender Is Good For Your Career Development | The right clutch of blooms will have the power to try and do two things – complement any color and style of wedding dress to help set a joyful mood at every change. There are thousands of coloring combinations and a offers a of hues to decide on when your planning your nuptials. Arranging beautiful blossoms into the best wedding appropriate arrangement can be done in many various style and styles. Depending on your costume, the formality on your wedding and your color scheme, the size of your basket can have an impact on the unique seem of your ceremony. Being savvy about your floral bouquet can create an attention-grabbing and memorable encounter for your guests. No matter what type of blossoms come in your bouquets, you could end up assured your wedding flowers will enhanced the beauty of your special day. Read more to learn more about the different sorts of wedding flower arrangements:

Hand-Tied Bouquets

These kinds of bouquets have a characteristics inspired look and so are perfect for summer wedding receptions that take place outside, such as in a lawn or on the seashore. These flower types are simply tied collectively, usually with a extravagant ribbon or ribbon and bow. These wedding blossom bouquets are suitable for nearly every setting, whether elegant or informal. Adding textured flowers including roses, peonies along with chrysanthemum can add extra elegance to your arrangement. If you are looking for a more personalized hand-tied bouquet, as opposed to using a ribbon, use meaningful objects for instance your mother’s previous wedding dress, etc . All these bouquets are eye-pleasing and classical.

Culbute Bouquets

Cascade marriage ceremony bouquets are designed to appear like a “waterfall” of blossoms. Although these types of bouquets are gorgeous to look at, they are usually merely complementing to more substantial brides and garments with a simpler layout. Since the bouquet itself is larger, you have to balance out the dimensions of size as well as color with your outfit. These bouquets tend to be filled with flowers for example calla lilies, orchids, stephanotis and very long, flowing greenery. Often the soft accents regarding green are an excellent backdrop for any various other vibrant colors with your bouquet. A écroulement bouquet can be stunning on it’s own!

Posy

These kind of smaller flower wedding bouquets are popular among blossom girls and bridesmaids. Tiny flowers for example spray roses, baby’s breath and lily-of-the-valley can create cute arrangements for your wedding. A different creative option for any posy flower bouquet is to use a couple larger flowers as focal points to complement your shade scheme. These plants arranged together may make quite a statement in your ceremony! This style of bride’s bouquet is perfect for children and has the ability to accompany each and every dress type. Even more examples of flowers that will work are hyacinths, hydrangeas and various colored roses.

Over arm

This modern search is elegant and, yet extremely beautiful design for any wedding party. Over arm wedding bouquets are most commonly seen using long-stemmed flowers like orchids, calla lilies and roses. All these flower buds are usually your best guarantee utilizing their sturdy and durable arises. Wrapping these blooms together with a ribbon is also a stylish choice. Figure fitting gowns are perfectly together with an over arm wedding bouquet. Take into account, holding the flowers for long periods of time while in photos may make them become heavy rapid select lighter blooms if this is the case.

Around Flower Bouquet

Round wedding flower bouquets are the most commonly viewed as bridal flowers. While similar to the posy type bouquet, round arrangements are larger in space and usually contain a variety of various flowers. Utilizing color to your advantage for those bouquets is important : use complementing as well as contrasting colors to generate the biggest visual effect. Any wedding, regardless of whether formal or laid-back, can accompany a round wedding blossom bouquet. If perfume is an important part of your own floral design, think of adding sweet foul-smelling roses, lilacs or peonies to your bouquet. Capitalizing on flower consistency, color and dimensions, you can be assured to offer the most striking engagement flower bouquet you and your guests have seen!

A lovely, innovative and personal flower bouquet is just as much an integral part of your wedding day as choosing the perfect dress. Selecting blooms based on the design of your dress, the colour of your wedding colour scheme and the availability of your own flower choices can assure you that your particular choosing the right flowers instructions and help you save income at the same time. Your bridal flower bouquet could be the glorious finishing touch to radiating the real beauty of your entire marriage ceremony. Call on flowers to set the mood and scene for the wedding ceremony you have dreamed of because childhood. Knowing the several designs of bouquets can assist you select the perfect set up of complementing think about for your wedding day.

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qindaskurdi · 5 years

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Sunflowers And Lavender – 5 Solid Evidences Attending Sunflowers And Lavender Is Good For Your Career Development

Hand-Tied Bouquets

Culbute Bouquets

Posy

Over arm

Around Flower Bouquet

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jelantiahilma · 5 years

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Sunflowers And Lavender – 5 Solid Evidences Attending Sunflowers And Lavender Is Good For Your Career Development

Hand-Tied Bouquets

Culbute Bouquets

Posy

Over arm

Around Flower Bouquet

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momentskrp · 6 years

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SACRED HEARTS SPOTLIGHT:

today we’re showcasing our 1B tenant hae ryangha, who has been with us at sweetheart since march 2018. he’s currently a product commercial photographer; part-time employee at a greenhouse and floristry, but we hear he has big dreams of becoming a photographer someday. turn to page 5 to read more!

PAST.

New moon. Planted seed. Ryangha recalls the pure adoration he began with. From a familial bond benevolent, whole and good, he was raised in Incheon by both his parents. They swore to cradle him to bloom. Thinking back on it now, bitterness lingers on his tongue, and he longs for the admiration he felt for them when he was young. His father, a local, owned a bakery in town that was always packed and lively. He was passionate in his work, in putting out the best product each and every day. And he was always wearing a goofy grin, snapping photos of anything he found beautiful; his wife, his son, genuine smiles and Earth in it’s entirety. Ryangha’s mother emigrated from the United States and was beloved by the community. She worked as a seamstress just down the street from her husband and volunteered for the town. On top of it all, she taught English and gifted fruit and flowers from her garden.

He longs to know them as they were.

From his youth, he remembers tall sunflowers beaming affection into his life. He remembers the warmth of the bakery, the smell of fresh soboro bread, and photos of their family pinned to the wall. His father expressed his pride in his first and only son to each of his customers. Whenever he was there, Ryangha was greeted with positivity and familiarity. The love his father received was extended unto him. It was in the bakery that he took his first photo, an old, finicky camera that he fumbled with before snapping camellia blooms brought in by his mother. Weak hands hold this photograph on lonely nights, with no safety and no retreat.

Daisies remind him of extended stays in the hospital. Still he avoids them. There was a recurring story his parents told, again and again, about him as a sick newborn, how strong he was for having survived. They told everyone they knew. Back then he was embarrassed for the way they spoke of him, though he knows now they were as genuinely proud of him as they were afraid of losing him. He heard the story with each infection that ailed him, reminding him that he would overcome it once again. At the age of six he was diagnosed with Common Variable Immunodeficiency. It was important to his family that he never felt held back by the disorder, that he was able to accomplish everything he set out to do. He misses that support profoundly.

Every year they planted bulbs in autumn. Ryangha was skeptical at first. How could anything so small and delicate survive the winter? His mother would press her finger to his nose and smile reassuringly. Periodically throughout the season he would go check on the tulips, even when he’d seen them bloom years prior, he still needed to know they were alright. He would share his company, crouch beside them and mumble his hopes so they might blossom, too. One day while doing so, bundled up in his winter coat and mittens, cheeks red from the cold, he heard his mother crying from the cracked kitchen window. He’s not sure if his parents ever explained to him as a child what was happening, there were never words exchanged so brutal. No, Ryangha put it together on his own. His father had fallen ill. And while his parents could only ever seem to smile, each time Ryangha passed a wilting flower in those last months, he had wept.

White chrysanthemums arranged in three-tier displayed towered over him in the same way grief overwhelmed him. Out went the brightest star in his sky and darkness filled that space. It was in the black crowd that swarmed the funeral. They carried familiar faces and meaning of consolation but Ryangha could only feel estranged in their presence. It was in the dark circles under his mother’s eyes. She would always be his mother, but from that day forward, he couldn’t seem to find her in her empty gaze. It was in the shadow that settled in his father’s place. At nine years old, the only solution Ryangha could conjure up was to hide away. Everything shifted on that day. Never to be the same. For a minute he thought things would get better, that the tulips would bloom in the spring. But they never did.

Winter froze him over.

Crescent moon. Growing bud. Roy admits that he had been stunted by the cold. Though he was once an energetic boy and interested in absolutely everything, it’s clear he lost that sense of youth early on. He’d grown to be a shrinking violet, a ground-hugging introvert. He and his mother had struggled for years, emotionally, financially. It was something he would never place fault for, but he was greatly impacted by all of it. Smothered and buried. As a young adult, his reflection showed hazy. Who was he and who did he want to be? No answers rose. Unconvincing decisions routed his life, never feeling sure in anything he did. In 2010 he attended university, majoring in environmental science. It didn’t really make sense, but everyone else seemed to be moving so fast, doing laps around him. He perceived them as full grown blooms ready for re-potting and re-planting. While he was only a struggling bud. So he pushed himself.

When Ryangha reflects upon this part of his life, a sour taste intrudes upon his tongue. It was around this time that his mother had revealed a new man in her life. A decade had passed. No one would blame her except her still hurting son. Back then he couldn’t see anything with clarity, so he argued with her, refused to accept her choices. Childish, he knows now. But he let it drive a wedge between them. The only person who truly loved him. He tried to shake the thoughts out of his head, but the heavy guilt he feels for it lingers on his always. Without her active presence in his life, he slipped deeper underwater. Cigarettes and wine took her place.

Familiarity greeted him as frequent submissions to local art showings landed him an opportunity he couldn’t refuse, a photography program in Seoul. Now this felt right. He went on to pursue it, living in the city for the duration of it, settling in Hongdae. And although recurring infections continued to ail him, attempting to hold him back, all he ever wanted to do was capture the most beautiful moments in life. Genuine smiles and the Earth in it’s entirety.

PRESENT.

Moonflower bloom. As he continues to stay in Hongdae, unable to fly away, he’s employed at a small product photography studio where he takes photos of products for commercial use. He hates every second of it, embarrassed to do such dull work because it’s vaguely related to the field he’s interested in. On the weekends he works at a greenhouse and floristry, pocketing all the extra cash he can, as he’s hoping he can return to school in the future. However it’s all interrupted by frequent dips in his health, stunting his growth. He continues to work on his portfolio, and runs a photojournalism blog highlighting the country’s environmental issues. But for his age he feels he’s fallen behind, further than before. He feels he’s made no progress.

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mysticnaturechild · 6 years

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I decided to do these together not intentionally but because they go together very well. We’re Going to touch on Samhain/Witch’s New Year and the Thining Veil. I hope to give some great information on both of these subjects, and maybe inspire someone that has been wanting to start a little boost.

Most know Samhain as Halloween happens on October 31st each year right in the middle of Fall, but some would ask why would the pagans new year happen at this time? It has to do with how we view life and death. It also is old crops and vegetation die to be reborn in the spring as new life. Samhain is the time that the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead is the thinnest. In ancient times it was believed that this is the time that our ancestors would return to visit us, to give help and advice. People set out lights in hollowed-out turnips to guide the spirits of the dead (the fore-runners of the modern Jack-o-lanterns) and put out food as an offering (which evolved to the modern tradition of “trick-or-treating”). Pagans are not afraid of the spirits of the dead. They are our friends and family. They are our ancestors who gave us life. We call them our “beloved dead”. Death is a natural part of life, in fact, a gift of the Goddess. If nobody died, there would be no room for new things to be born, not change or growth. Nobody really knows what happens when they die. Most Pagans believe that our spirits live on in one way or another while our bodies return to the elements and sustain other lives. There are many beautiful names for the place where our spirits go: Summerland (the place that is always summer and never winter), Tir n’a Nob (The Irish “Land of the Youth” where spirits grow younger and younger until they are young enough to be reborn) , Avalon (the Isle of Apples, where the dead wander in the orchards of the Goddess, where the trees bear fruit and flowers at the same time), and Heaven (where streets are paved with gold, and the spirits are transformed into angles and spend eternity in the presence of God). However we imagine this place, it is a place of peace and rest where we stay for a time until we are ready to be reborn again, perhaps as an animal or a tree or as another person. In each life, we learn new lessons, so our spirits are always growing wiser. Samhain is also our New Year’s Day. It may seem strange to have a new year begin in the fall when the days are growing shorter and colder. But death and birth are two sides of the same coin. It is the time of death and the time of new beginnings, when we think about hope and change and what the next year will bring. At Mabon, the God Lugh died in order for us to live through His abundance. During the intervening time, He has gathered the spirits of those that have died over the year and waits for the night so that they may pass through the gate to the other side. This is the time to revere our ancestors and to say farewell to those that have passed this last year. The abundance of the fields now gives way to the power and strength of the Horned God of the Hunt. This begins a time of darkness when the land begins its slumber and from now until Yule, the days grow shorter and darker. Winter storms begin to sweep, down from the north. The time when the earth rests is begun at Samhain. We celebrate the year passed and the year to come. We light bonfires and perform rituals to honor those that have gone before. A sacrifice of bread and wine are offered to the Gods as thanks for Their guidance throughout the past year and in advance for the year to come. Originally the “Feast of the Dead” was celebrated in Celtic countries by leaving food offerings on altars and doorsteps for the “wandering dead”. Today a lot of practitioners still carry out that tradition. Single candles were lit and left in a window to help guide the spirits of ancestors and loved ones home. Extra chairs were set to the table and around the hearth for the unseen guest. Apples were buried along roadsides and paths for spirits who were lost or had no descendants to provide for them. Turnips were hollowed out and carved to look like protective spirits, for this was a night of magic and chaos. The Wee Folke became very active, pulling pranks on unsuspecting humans. Traveling after dark was not advised. People dressed in white (like ghosts), wore disguises made of straw or dressed as the opposite gender in order to fool the Nature spirits. This was the time that the cattle and other livestock were slaughtered for eating in the ensuing winter months. Any crops still in the field on Samhain were considered taboo and left as offerings to the Nature spirits. Bonfires were built, (originally called bone-fires, for after feasting, the bones were thrown in the fire as offerings for healthy and plentiful livestock in the New Year) and stones were marked with peoples names. Then they were thrown into the fire, to be retrieved in the morning. The condition of the retrieved stone foretold of that person’s fortune in the coming year. Hearth fires were also lit from the village bonfire to ensure unity, and the ashes were spread over the harvested fields to protect and bless the land. Various other names for this Greater Sabbat are Third Harvest, Samana, Day of the Dead, Old Hallowmas (Scottish/Celtic), Vigil of Saman, Shadowfest (Strega), and Samhuinn. Also known as All Hallow’s Eve, (that day actually falls on November 7th), and Martinmas (that is celebrated November 11th), Samhain is now generally considered the Witch’s New Year.(by Mike Nichols copyright by MicroMuse Press)

HERBS:

Pumpkin, Apple, Nuts, Thistle, Chrysanthemum, Broom, Oak leaves, Sage

INCENSE:

Apple, Nutmeg, Sage, Mint

COLOR:

Black, Orange

DECORATIONS:

Jack-o-Lantern, Photos of deceased loved ones, Apples, Fall leaves, Autumn flowers, Squashes.

FOOD:

Apples, Nuts, Cider, Mulled wine, Pumpkin dishes, Cranberry muffins, Herbal tea.

The Altar

The Altar at Samhain can be covered with a black or orange cloth. Upon it, pictures of our beloved dead and things that remind us of them are very appropriate. Symbols of the season, such as pumpkins, pomegranates, gourds, Indian corn, and fallen leaves make wonderful and beautiful decorations.

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THE FEAST OF SAMHAIN

Because the climate of the seasons was once so difficult to predict, Samhain was a celebration of bounty but also a time of fear. No matter how much preparation was done, one could never be sure what was to come or whether the provisions for winter would be sufficient. Oftentimes, an early frost was interpreted as otherworldly spirits blighting the vegetation with their breath. This type of “weather as omen” belief may have given rise to the notion of dead spirits cavorting about and faeries plotting to steal away human beings on Samhain night.

In faerie lore, Samhain is the night of the “wild hunt,” a notorious and rambunctious ride when scores of faeries come racing out from within their hollow hills to wreak havoc throughout the towns. Meandering mortals avoided traversing near the sidhe, or faerie mounds, out of fear of abduction. And if one did venture out during the wild hunt, it was only under the auspices of a protective charm, such as salt or iron. Turning one’s clothing inside out was another way to protect against faerie mischief. Faerie lore claims that a stone with a natural hole through it, dry but found near the water, would enable the wearer to enter the faerie realm and return from it unharmed. This same type of amulet was also believed to protect horses from faerie mischief and theft.

Perhaps it was the practice of wearing charms for protection that led Samhain to become a night for divination. Many different methods of divination were used by the Celts in order for young girls to learn the name of a future husband. Others sought to get a glimpse of the future and obtain information about a future occupation. Some of the techniques they used included burning nuts in the hearth fire and making assumptions based upon which nuts exploded and which did not; pouring molten lead into cool water, then interpreting the shapes that formed in order to get clues about a future occupation; and the baking of soddag valloo, or “dumb cakes,” a Manx Gaelic custom involving cakes, which were baked directly on top of the embers of the fire. Eating the cake in silence was thought to encourage prophetic dreams in young women seeking to learn the identity of their future husbands, provided that they left the room without turning their backs on the fire. Babies born on Samhain were thought to possess divinatory power and were often treated with special respect as well as fear.

Samhain is also the time when rituals were held to honor the dead. Benevolent spirits were beckoned and tempted with favorite foods that they enjoyed during life. Malevolent spirits were banished and kept away. The origin of the jack o’ lantern is rooted in the belief of wandering spirits and ghosts. The lantern’s glow was meant as a beacon for the spirits of the dearly departed, while the terrible faces carved therein were meant to frighten away any spirit with ill intentions. (from The Wiccan Year by Judy Ann Nock)

Myths and Misconceptions:

Contrary to a popular Internet-based (and Chick Tract-encouraged) rumor, Samhain was not the name of some ancient Celtic god of death, or of anything else, for that matter. Religious scholars agree that the word Samhain (pronounced “sow-en”) comes from the Gaelic “Samhuin,” but they’re divided on whether it means the end or beginning of summer. After all, when summer is ending here on earth, it’s just beginning in the Underworld. Samhain actually refers to the daylight portion of the holiday, on November 1st.

All Hallow Mass:

Around the eighth century or so, the Catholic Church decided to use November 1st as All Saints Day. This was actually a pretty smart move on their part – the local pagans were already celebrating that day anyway, so it made sense to use it as a church holiday. All Saints’ became the festival to honor any saint who didn’t already have a day of his or her own. The mass which was said on All Saints’ was called Allhallowmas – the mass of all those who are allowed. The night before naturally became known as All Hallows Eve, and eventually morphed into what we call Halloween.Honoring the Ancestors:

For some of us, Samhain is when we honor our ancestors who came before us. If you’ve ever done genealogy research, or if you’ve had a loved one die in the past year, this is the perfect night to celebrate their memory. If we’re fortunate, they will return to communicate with us from beyond the veil and offer advice, protection, and guidance for the upcoming year.

If you want to celebrate Samhain in the Celtic tradition, spread the festivities out over three consecutive days. You can hold a ritual and feast each night. Be flexible, though, so you can work around trick-or-treating schedules!

Samhain Rituals:

Try one — or all — of these rituals to celebrate Samhain and welcome the new year.

Celebrating the End of the Harvest Samhain Ritual for Animals Honoring the Ancestors Hold a Seance at Samhain Host a Dumb Supper Honor the God and Godde<contributed by Oeflili (Beth Baker) 10-16-13>

Samhain Ritual

Items needed: 4 quarter candles altar decorations stone, feather, water large basket with apples or nuts cakes and wine (good non-alcoholic choice here is apple cider) container to dispose of apple cores

Cast the Circle

East, South, West, North! Let the people gather forth! Air, Fire, Water, Earth! Sacred circle now sees birth!

Call the Quarters

EAST: (Lights Eastern candle) Let there be a light kindled from the spirit. Blessed be this Eastern Gate and blessed be the element of Air.

SOUTH: (Lights Southern candle) Let there be a light increasing and illuminating the South. Blessed be this Southern Gate and blessed be the element of Fire.

WEST: (Lights Western candle) Let there be a light radiating in the West. Blessed be this Western Gate and blessed be the Element of Water.

NORTH: (Lights Northern candle) Let there be a light reflecting in the North. Blessed be this Northern Gate and blessed be the Element of Earth.

Casters: Let these powers be as one.

All: So mote it be.

Here are other things you can do to celebrate Samhain:

Samhain Nature Walk. Take a meditative walk in a natural area near your home. Observe and contemplate the colors, aromas, sounds, and other sensations of the season. Experience yourself as part of the Circle of Life and reflect on death and rebirth as being an important part of Nature. If the location you visit permits, gather some natural objects and upon your return use them to adorn your home.

Seasonal Imagery. Decorate your home with Samhain seasonal symbols and the colors of orange and black. Place an Autumnal wreath on your front door. Create displays with pumpkins, cornstalks, gourds, acorns, and apples. Set candles in cauldrons.

Ancestors Altar. Gather photographs, heirlooms, and other mementos of deceased family, friends, and companion creatures. Arrange them on a table, dresser, or another surface, along with several votive candles. Kindle the candles in their memory as you call out their names and express good wishes. Thank them for being part of your life. Sit quietly and pay attention to what you experience. Note any messages you receive in your journal. This Ancestors Altar can be created just for Samhain or kept year round.

Feast of the Dead. Prepare a Samhain dinner. Include a place setting at your table or at a nearby altar for the Dead. Add an offering of a bit of each beverage being consumed to the cup at that place setting, and to the plate, add a bit of each food served. Invite your ancestors and other deceased loved ones to come and dine with you. To have this as a Samhain Dumb Supper experience, dine in silence. After the feast, place the contents of the plate and cup for the Dead outdoors in a natural location as an offering for the Dead.

Ancestor Stories. Learn about family history. Contact one or more older relatives and ask them to share memories of family members now dead. Record them in some way and later write accounts of what they share.

Give thanks. Share what you learned and have written with another family member or friend. Add names of those you learned about and wish to honor to your Ancestors Altar.

Cemetery Visit. Visit and tend the gravesite of a loved one at a cemetery. Call to mind memories and consider ways the loved one continues to live on within you. Place an offering there such as fresh flowers, dried herbs, or a libation of water.

Reflections. Reflect on you and your life over the past year. Review journals, planners, photographs, blogs, and other notations you have created during the past year. Consider how you have grown, accomplishments, challenges, adventures, travels, and learnings. Meditate. Journal about your year in review, your meditation, and your reflections. Renovate. Select an area of your home or life as a focus. Examine it. Re-organize it. Release what is no longer needed. Create a better pattern. Celebrate renewal and transformation.

Bonfire Magic. Kindle a bonfire outdoors when possible or kindle flames in a fireplace or a small cauldron. Write down an outmoded habit that you wish to end and cast it into the Samhain flames as you imagine release. Imagine yourself adopting a new, healthier way of being as you move around the fire clockwise.

Divinatory Guidance. Using Tarot, Runes, Scrying, or some other method of divination, seek and reflect on guidance for the year to come. Write a summary of your process and messages. Select something appropriate to act upon and do it.

Divine Invocations. Honor and call upon the Divine in one or more Sacred Forms associated with Samhain, such as the Crone Goddess and Horned God of Nature. Invite them to aid you in your remembrance of the Dead and in your understanding of the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. If you have lost loved ones in the past year, ask these Divine Ones to comfort and support you.

Transforming Expressions. If you encounter distortions, misinformation, and/or false, negative stereotypes about Paganism and Samhain in the media, contact the source, express your concerns, and share accurate information. Help eradicate derogatory stereotyping with courteous, concise, and intelligent communications.© 2013 Circle Sanctuary, Inc. All rights reserved. https://www.circlesanctuary.org/index.php/celebrating-the-seasons/celebrating-samhain

Crafts that you can do this time of year:

Make a Scrying Mirror

Samhain is a time to do some serious divination – it’s the time of year when the veil between our world and that of the spirits is at its thinnest, and that means it’s the perfect season to look for messages from the metaphysical. Scrying is one of the best-known forms of divination and can be done in a variety of ways. Basically, it’s the practice of looking into some sort of reflective surface — such as water, fire, glass, dark stones, etc. — to see what messages, symbols, or visions may appear. A scrying mirror is a simple black-backed mirror, and it’s easy to make one yourself.

To make your scrying mirror, you’ll need the following: · A clear glass plate · Matte black spray paint · Additional paints (acrylic) for embellishment

To prepare the mirror, first, you’ll need to clean it. Use any glass cleaner, or for a more earth-friendly method, use vinegar mixed with water. Once the glass is clean, flip it over so that the back side is facing up. Lightly spray with the matte black spray paint. For the best result, hold the can a couple of feet away, and spray from side to side. If you hold the can too close, the paint will pool, and you don’t want this. As each coat dries, add another coat. After five to six coats, the paint should be dense enough that you can’t see through the paint if you hold the glass up to a light. Once the paint has dried, turn the glass right side up. Use your acrylic paint to add embellishments around the outer edge of the plate — you can add symbols of your tradition, magical sigils, or even your favorite saying. The one in the photo says, “Thee I invoke by the moonlit sea, the standing stone, and the twisted tree.” Allow these to dry as well. Your mirror is ready for scrying, but before you use it, you may want to consecrate it as you would any other magical item. To Use Your Scrying Mirror If your tradition normally requires you to cast a circle, do so now. If you’d like to play some music, start your cd player. If you’d like to light a candle or two, go ahead, but be sure to place them so that they don’t interfere with your line of vision. Sit or stand comfortably at your workspace. Begin by closing your eyes, and attuning your mind to the energy around you. Take some time to gather that energy. When you are ready to begin scrying, open your eyes. Position yourself so that you can look in the mirror. Stare into the glass, looking for patterns, symbols or pictures — and don’t worry about blinking, it’s fine if you do. You may see images moving, or perhaps even words forming. You may have thoughts pop spontaneously into your head, that seem to have nothing at all to do with anything. Perhaps you’ll suddenly think about someone you haven’t seen in decades. Use your journal, and write everything down. Spend as much time as you like gazing into the mirror — it may be just a few minutes or even an hour. Stop when you begin to feel restless, or if you’re getting distracted by mundane things. When you are finished gazing into the mirror, make sure you have recorded everything you saw, thought and felt during your scrying session. Messages often come to us from other realms and yet we frequently don’t recognize them for what they are. If a bit of information doesn’t make sense, don’t worry — sit on it for a few days and let your unconscious mind process it. Chances are, it will make sense eventually. It’s also possible that you could receive a message that’s meant for someone else — if something doesn’t seem to apply to you, think about your circle of family friends, and who the message might be meant for.

Spirits in the Smoke

Before you get started, be sure to brush up on your Incense 101. By the time Samhain rolls around, your herb garden is probably looking pretty sad. Now’s the time to take all those goodies you harvested and dried in September, and put them to good use. This incense blend is perfect for a Samhain seance, divination session, or for any other autumn working. This recipe is for loose incense, but you can adapt it for stick or cone recipes. As you mix and blend your incense, focus on the goal of your work. Do you wish to contact the spirit of a long-dead ancestor? Are you hoping to bring some visions your way in a dream? Or are you may be looking to enhance your own meditative abilities? Focus your intent as you blend your ingredients. You’ll need: · 2 parts Cinnamon · 1 part ground cloves · 1 part Dragon’s Blood resin · 1 part Hyssop · 1 part Patchouli · 2 parts Rosemary · 1 part Sage · A dash of sea salt · Mixing the Magic · Add your ingredients to your mixing bowl one at a time. Measure carefully, and if the leaves or blossoms need to be crushed, use your mortar and pestle to do so. As you blend the herbs together, state your intent. You may find it helpful to charge your incense with an incantation. For example, if you were going to use your incense during a seance, you could use this: · The veil has thinned, the moon is bright and I blend this magic on Samhain night. Celebrating life and death and rebirth with these herbs, I’ve harvested from the earth. I send my intent by smoke in the air and call on those whose blood I share. I ask my ancestors to guide and watch over me, As I will, so it shall be. · Store your incense in a tightly sealed jar. Make sure you label it with its intent and name, as well as the date you created it. Use within three months, so that it remains charged and fresh.

Make a Witch Bottle

The witch bottle is a magical tool that has been reported in use for centuries. In early times, the bottle was designed as a way to protect oneself from malicious witchcraft and sorcery. In particular, around the time of Samhain, homeowners might create a witch bottle to keep evil spirits from entering the home on Hallow’s Eve. The witch bottle was usually made of pottery or glass, and included sharp objects such as pins and bent nails. It typically contained urine as well, belonging to the homeowner, as a magical link to the property and family within. In 2009, an intact witch bottle was found in Greenwich, England, and experts have dated it back to around the seventeenth century. Around the Samhain season, you may want to do a little bit of protective magic yourself, and create a witch bottle of your own. The general idea of the witch bottle is to not only protect yourself but send back the negative energy to whoever or whatever is sending it your way. You’ll need the following items: · A small glass jar with lid · Sharp, rusty items like nails, razor blades, bent pins · Sea salt · Red string or ribbon · A black candle Fill the jar about halfway with the sharp, rusty items. These were used to deflect bad luck and ill fortune away from the jar. Add the salt, which is used for purification, and finally, the red string or ribbon, which was believed to bring protection. When the jar is halfway filled, there are a couple of different things you can do, depending on whether or not you’re easily repulsed.

Magical Protection

One option is to fill the remainder of the jar with your own urine – this identifies the bottle as belonging to you. However, if the idea makes you a bit squeamish, there are other ways you can complete the process. Instead of urine, use a bit of wine. You may wish to consecrate the wine first before using it in this manner. In some magical traditions, the practitioner might choose to spit in the wine after it’s in the jar because — much like the urine — this is a way of marking the jar as your territory. Cap the jar, and make sure it’s sealed tightly (particularly if you used urine – you don’t want any accidental spillage), and seal it with wax from the black candle. Black is considered handy for banishing negativity. If you’re having trouble finding black candles, you may want to use white instead, and imagine a white ring of protection surrounding your witch bottle. Also, in candle magic, white is typically considered a universal substitute for any other color candle. Now – where to stash your bottle? There are two schools of thought on this, and you can decide which one works best for you. One group swears that the bottle needs to be hidden somewhere in the home – under a doorstep, up in a chimney, behind a cabinet, whatever — because that way, any negative magic aimed at the house will always go straight to the witch bottle, avoiding the people in the home. The other philosophy is that the bottle needs to be buried as far away from the house as possible so that any negative magic sent towards you will never reach your home in the first place. Whichever one you choose, be sure that you’re leaving your bottle in a place where it will remain undisturbed permanently. If you do believe someone may be trying to harm you or your family with malicious magic, be sure to read about Magical Self Defense.

I hope you all enjoy this I tried to get as much information in this as possible and hope that maybe it can inspire someone this Samhain. Love and Light. Blessed Be )0(

Day 13 & 14 I decided to do these together not intentionally but because they go together very well. We're Going to touch on Samhain/Witch's New Year and the Thining Veil.

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