The Volunteers

I am not the world's best gardener.  In fact, I am a pretty freaking lackadaisical gardener who hates working in the sun and has recently decided that if I'm going to do any yardwork at all it has to be in the rain.  My nonchalant attitude towards my garden pretty much proves that gardening is in no way a genetic trait, because my mother and both my grandmothers excel/ed at it.  They Know Things About Plants, whereas I am just mystified and generally operate on the, "It will probably grow back?" principle of gardening.

(Spoiler: this is not always the case.  Stupid mint.)

One thing my mother did manage to teach me (in spite of my varicolored thumbs) is that a weed is only a weed if you don't want it there.  As such, I (like she) am in the habit of "let's just see what it is"ing a lot of plants that randomly pop up in unexpected places.  We call them "volunteers", and it's how I got my gladiolas a few years back, and more recently how I got my lilies:

Glory

Gentle readers, I literally had no idea those were even there until I sat down on my back porch ten minutes ago and happened to glance at a large planter that has been barren for three years (this is how much attention my poor garden gets).  And there they were, smiling at me all cheerful and zesty-orangey.  Lilies.

I love lilies.

Thanks, Universe.