On the wall of the private dining room at Heritage Lodge is a big painting of flowers — flowers I used to be very familiar with, since earliest childhood, but haven't seen in the decades since I moved away from temperate climes. They have an unusual form: two big, overlapping, curly petals. I try to remember what they are called. I know there's a delicate scent associated with them too, not sweet but ... clean.
Flowering beans? Bean blossoms? No, that's not right. Some kind of peas? I can see in my mind, vividly, the ones I used to see, the sun shining through their delicate blue and green petals with a faint hint of gold. The ones in the painting are soft pinky-red, like a blush.
I hold the image of those others in my mind, a memory that goes right back to childhood. My Dad loved them too. I can see him standing beside them, talking ... ah yes, sweet peas, that's it!
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