Semi-Daily Scribbles

Flowers were dear, and the household budget tight as a drumhead. Ada believed if one were to spend money on bringing the outdoors in, petals had to be a particular shade of raspberries in cream. Anything else would be a waste of money. Not blushing baby's cheek. Not, heaven forbid, lilac. Ada's exacting requirements of what pink ought to be made wildflower picking verboten. Even passing the botanical gardens, with fire-tone dahlias screaming in the breeze, "Look at me!" made Ada swoon. It was unwise to present her with a gift of violets, or a fresh clipped rose, sparkling with dew, from the neighbor's trellis. When Ada had saved enough coins from taking in extra shirts to mend and boil, she alone was responsible for choosing the flowers. Only Ada could see the color she had in mind. "Ada's Pink" was her most vivid memory of home; too precious a possession to leave in someone else's hands.