On Monday, May 8, 2017, I wrote about peonies in my old blog, Rattlebridge Farm. I compared them to debutants in ball gowns. Here’s a snip from my old blog post:

My mother and grandmother always referred to peonies as “funeral flowers.” That seemed odd, considering these flowers have a brief, if memorable, blooming season. Surely a mourner would be hard-pressed to find a September peony. 

A blooming peony bush makes me think of debutantes in ruffled ball gowns, layers and layers of soft pink silk. I can see them now, all those pretty girls standing at the edge of a dance floor, their gloved hands clasped as if in prayer.  

Here in middle Tennessee, my peonies bloom in May. But I keep thinking that a botanical think-tank is surely finding a way to create an ever-blooming peony. 

Me, I would miss the first sighting of buds, so round and full of possibilities. I would miss the moment the buds unfurl, petal by petal, and the joy of snipping a few blossoms.  Maybe I’m just old fashioned, but I rather like the specialness of this once-a-year bouquet.

Finally, there’s the lucious dual pronounciation. Like tomato or tomatah, we are presented with two options: the elegant p-O-knee or the downhome pee-oney. I use both, depending on my mood, of course.