Diary of My Country Life-July 25th, 2026

The original source of this blog: https://www.lotusandmichael.com/blogs/diary-of-my-country-life

07/25/2026 Saturday 61-83F Sunny 

This morning when I swept the back patio, I noticed that the crape myrtle flowers mostly faded. The fallen petals piled on the ground, reminding me of their happy blooming moments just last week—because I was struck by its thousands of red flowers smiling against my red window frame, the turquoise blue sky and white fluffy clouds, and planned to paint it.  

“It fades away quickly. You’d better do it in these few days.” My husband suggested. 

But I had no time. Now I have finally lost this opportunity. 

I made a plan last August that I would paint all my favored plants in my garden, each one a portrait or with a theme. So far, I have painted sixteen paintings, thirteen species (since I painted my Yellow Yao tree peony three times and my loofah plants twice 😂). It’s a big project as I keep adding new plants and finding new beauties. Sometimes a new idea strikes me about the ones I painted before so repainting it becomes unavoidable. Now there are several plants lining up on my to-paint list: Honeysuckle, epiphyllum, and loofahs again because this year I built new trellises for them.  

I shall finish these three before autumn arrives, before the fall bloomers pop up—they are now humbly preparing for their once-a-year flower show.   

Honeysuckles are real beauties. I planted mine at the short fence when it came to my home, hoping one day it would weave throughout the whole front flower bed. But it didn’t make its journey long: Two days after the planting, deer showed up and ate all the tender, juicy shoots. Then I transplanted it to the side of the house near the window, set up a teepee to let it climb, and built a five-foot high fence to block deers’ accessibility. Since then, this place has become its permanent home. Every morning when I open the window, the sweet strong aroma of its flowers right away wafts in as if it couldn’t wait any longer to report its flower situation of the day. I count the flowers—one, two...five blooming clusters, the largest number of this summer. I have seen much more prosperous ones in the wild with thousands of flowers on them; perhaps because I pruned mine too much and too late this spring, so it had to put energy to grow back first. Nevertheless, mine is still beautiful; its branches tangle along the teepee sticking out the yellow-white flower clusters in the shape of fingered citron (Buddha’s Hand). I find it very artistic. 

Chinese people call this type of honeysuckle “Jin-yin Hua”. Jin means golden; Yin means silvery; Hua means flower. Golden-silvery describes its flower color. Other than its gorgeous scent and dramatic flower shape, another important reason for me to enlist it as my must-have is because of its medicinal functions.  

I can’t recall when I began to drink honeysuckle tea almost every summer. When the weather gets hot, the heat accumulates inside my body as well which will trigger itchy skin and dermal symptoms. To clear the heat, the best foods are mung beans and melons, the best teas are honeysuckles and chrysanthemums. My parents go to the fields to gather wild chrysanthemum flower buds then toast them every autumn; and I pick my honeysuckle flowers and drink them every day. If there are extras, I sun dry them and store them in a jar. 

Thanks to the honeysuckle; it perfumes my house, helps me overcome the long bitter summer. And besides, unlike the crape myrtle’s flush of flowers, honeysuckle’s blooming season is much longer. Everyday there are new blossoms, like constant soaking rain, steady and assuring.  

I scheduled to start to work on the painting of the honeysuckle next Monday. But I am still not sure whether I should paint only a hand holding out from a window to pick the flowers, or a person sitting in the window looking at the flowers. Which way will be more interesting? Which one can set the mood better? 🤷🏻‍♀️ 

After sweeping the patio, I hung out my laundry. Yes, I still keep the traditional way to sun dry all my clothes and linens; and I eliminated dryers from my life long ago. I like the smell of sun left on my garments very much, and I like letting the morning fresh air pass through them as if they owned spirits. 

I started to wash my own clothes when I was a little kid. We had no washing machine at that time, so everything had to be hand-washed. All the bigger pieces like bedding and winter jackets were my mother’s responsibility; the rest would be distributed to the respective owners. Perhaps my siblings sensed my fondness for doing laundry. Sometimes they offered a few coins, or some promised treats to trade for my labor; we bargained, and the deal was made. It’s a win-win situation—they saved their efforts, and I earned a little bit of something. But one thing my siblings mightn’t understand was that when the pile of dirty clothes had turned out to be something clean, lingering with a subtle smell of soap on the clothesline in the sun, to me it was a joy beyond any material compensation. 

While I am still standing in the sun holding my empty laundry basket, a neighborhood tabby passes by. “Meow!” I pretend to be a big, man-shaped cat. The tabby casts a suspicious, annoyed look at me, seeming like my mimic is an insult to his intelligence, then quickly walks away.  

“Well,” I comfort myself, “it’s way better to keep some distance.”