Survivors

I have come to the conclusion that Florida exists today because it breeds survivors.  I am not talking just about the octogenarians who populate the state (although near-by Clearwater has the largest number of octogenarians per capita than any other city in the United States), but also about the wildlife and the plant life.  Florida houses alligators that are pushing the century mark, turtles that have passed the century mark, and trees that started to sprout long before European settlers even found this "new world."  I even have small examples of survivors in our own yard.

Two years ago, while digging around in the back yard, I unearthed a totally buried but intact clay flowerpot. (It somehow survived both being buried and miraculously not being shattered by my shovel when I dug it up.)  For over a year, it sat empty on the stone patio table, once again surviving sun, winds, storms, and scurrying lizards. No one stole it, and the neighbor's children's golf balls failed to bring about its demise.

In that same year two years ago, I also awoke one day to pink wildflowers blooming all over the backyard.  By their very nature, wildflowers are survivors, and although these may have been domesticated at one time, their random appearance in the yard told me they had not been intentionally planted. So up they came, surviving long enough for me to photograph them. My sister-in-law identified them an freesias.  Within days, they were gone.

Last year, the freesias once again made a short appearance.  Although there were not as many, perhaps due to weather conditions, I decided to save one from the blades of our forthcoming lawn service by digging it up and planting it in the clay flowerpot.  I expected that it would wither and die over the summer when we were gone, but for a while, I could enjoy the green leaves and the single pink flower.

I was astonished when we returned in November and saw the green leaves of the freesia informing me that the flower was, indeed, still very much alive.  A true survivor.  All winter long, that little pot has sat outside.  The freesia gets water when it rains, but no other care or attention.  Yet yesterday, while sitting outside, I noticed something from the corner of my eye.  Unbelievably, although I have seen no other freesias in the yard, the sole survivor of my disinterest had once again bloomed into a glorious flower.  I share the pictures with you for you to enjoy.

My surviving freesia faces the sun.

A second bud is about to bloom, so the plant continues to thrive.

Florida is definitely a place for survivors.

We had a great day today.  This morning I had a final appointment with my rhumatologist before we head north . I am happy to report that he said I am "doing exceptionally well" and that I have regained a fair amount of my strength. (That must be due to the sanding, scraping, painting, and digging I have done in the last few months!)  He has me on a course to continue to reduce the Prednisone, and he questioned one of the painful tests (EMG) I am due to have when I return to Mayo.  What he said made sense, so I may cancel that test before I go back to Minnesota.  The good news is that I continue to get stronger and to feel better.  Am I 100% back to what I was before I was diagnosed with dermatomyositis?  No, and I probably never will be; however, I am far better than I was before, and I have to look forward to continuing to make progress.  I still get tired and have to make sure that I do not do too much (like I did on Tuesday), but overall we both are happy with how much my health has improved.

Today's picture showing that the freesia will not quit.

After the doctor's appointment, we drove north to Tarpon Springs for a little shopping and then for a lunch on the beach.  Summer has arrived in Florida, and the temperatures are in the high 80s to low 90s right now.  The beach, however, always has a breeze and the cooler water temperature keeps the beaches very comfortable.  We packed a picnic lunch and our Kindles, and we had a delightful early afternoon.

On the way home, I saw a really strange sight.  The road we were on passed over a small gully and creek.  Sitting at the edge of the water, as if trying to dip his feet in to cool off, was a left-over from Christmas, discarded, four-foot high plastic snowman.  Well, maybe he wasn't discarded.  Maybe he was an escapee from a garage somewhere, and he was just trying to beat the heat.  There, yet again, was another survivor in this crazy state.