Iris is the Greek word for rainbow, and in Greek mythology, she was goddess of the rainbow and messenger for Zeus and Hera. Presumably iris flowers opening up now were named for her because they come in almost every color. Old timers call them flags, as the varicolored blooms stand on stalks like flags in a parade.
When we moved here in 2008, there were some iris on our property, the lavender-light blue variety so common locally, which my wife faithfully divides and replants every fall. Now the roadside garden, the driveway, fences and paths are all lined with iris, and a couple of majestic old oak trees have a ring at their bases.
Then there is the Poop Garden, so named because it is planted on top of our septic tank. A screen porch opening from our bedroom overlooks this garden, so it is a springtime project to weed it and relandscape for viewing from above. A few years back we hauled large slabs of Ozark rock to define specific planting sites, and we engaged in iris exchange with some friends.
First to open are a couple purply-yellowish blooms, smudgy-looking, the color of a major bruise. Not my favorite. These are followed by a couple dozen sunny yellow iris, and then two or three royal purples. The original hundreds of lavender are just starting to open with warmer weather. We have some newbies that will soon bloom for the first time, purchased in Mountain View when we went to Ozark Folk Center for a concert last year.
It seems a retired woman in Mountain View began an annual iris festival there three years back. She buys and resells iris of all types and colors, and has spearheaded plantings around the old Stone County Courthouse and other downtown landmarks. We were planning a trip there in May, but I suppose it is a ghost town hiding from coronavirus now, sort of a dry county version of Eureka Springs, where the locals are outnumbered by tourists on festival weekends. No car show, no gathering of carousel organs, no square dancing, no music, arts and crafts, no restaurants—just iris photos on their website.
On rainy days, when we can’t work outside, we read a lot. Local libraries are closed but offer curbside service if you contact them online or by phone. This year we discovered two new favorite authors. The first was serendipitous—before the libraries closed, we checked out the newest novel by Richard Russo, Chances Are, and went on to read several more.
He won a Pulitzer Prize for Empire Falls, and Nobody’s Fool was made into a movie with Paul Newman, Jessica Tandy and Bruce Willis. His characters are recognizable from life—lovable losers, smarmy con-men, strong-willed but flawed women, a laborer with the brains of a doorknob. Russo also wrote a memoir called Elsewhere, which gives insight into the dying New England mill towns in which most of his fiction is set.
The other author we are reading is Carl Hiaasen, a newspaper columnist from south Florida, where his wacko mystery novels are all set. Like Russo’s, the characters in Hiaasen’s books are much like people you know—jaded journalists and cops or ex-cops who are always in trouble for bucking the system and even after three divorces trying to woo pretty girls into bed.
Both Russo and Hiaasen write realistic fiction, although sometimes the plots are improbable. Both authors are concerned with environmental degradation, political corruption, the stranglehold of greed and money over regular working people, the triumph of romance over stupidity and cynicism. Russo is more literary; Hiaasen insanely funny. Many of the weird events come from real life, for instance a car wreck caused by a woman shaving her pubic hair while driving sixty miles an hour on the Key West highway.
Hiaasen has also written books for young readers, including Hoot, based on his actual teen-age experience of sabotaging a construction project that threatened rare burrowing owls on the edge of the everglades. The library system has this movie, too. Books and gardens are good antidotes for covid-19.
Kirk Ashworth