Down With Purple

It started the second year I lived here. Not the first, the second. I began to hate purple. Yes, purple. No, the house wasn’t painted purple and nothing on the inside was purple. Well, one of the bedrooms was lavender, but that wasn’t the cause of my newfound aversion. It was the landscaping, you see….the same landscaping that my father pointed out would be a lot of upkeep, but I just disregarded that remark and any other that might have dissuaded me from buying this house. Once I want something, I want it, come hell or high water. Don’t be like that because, eventually, hell and high water will arrive on the doorstep. But, I digress. Whoever designed the landscaping, did so with the changing seasons in mind, assuring that something was always in bloom. It was really pretty cool….at first. By the end of the second year, it became apparent that purple heralded the end of summer. There’s purple on the ground, purple in the bushes, purple in the trees… Everywhere you look, there is purple, and I loathe it now. Yes, I do. Summer, you see, is my favorite season. I love it with a passion. I love everything about it. Actually, it’s the only season I like. But now, dotted amongst the weeds and brush and all that goes along with a landscape that has become too much to keep up with (listen to your parents, people), the dreaded purple has arrived, mocking, whispering, “It’s almost over.” Say it ain’t so.