And there was great rejoicing and the wine flowed freely

We’ve all played the waiting game with wisteria. I’ve heard the other horror stories: eight years, ten years, fourteen years, more. And I’ve heard the solutions: root-pruning, branch pruning, don’t cut the old wood, do cut the old wood, Epsom salts, lime, voodoo, chanting, divine intervention.

I bought my “ready to bloom” wisteria—and it was rather a large one, as nursery vines go—about seven years ago, when we moved into the GWI property. During those seven years, it has developed a very sturdy trunk, attempted to tear the roof off our garage, seriously encroached on the next door neighbors “yard” (yards don’t really exist in Allentown), and created an additional shade canopy for a spot already in partial shade. In fact, I think the wisteria prompted my neighbor to plant her voracious silver lace vine, which is kind of like the kudzu of the North, and has taken a fence and a utility pole as hostages in its mission to envelop both our properties. But I can’t make any protestations—I have the wisteria.

Last night, however, as I was enjoying a cocktail (a vicious concoction I invented for the occasion and now bitterly regret) with friends in the garden, one of them pointed up and sure enough, there were the pale violet blooms, the first ever seen. At the top, where the most sun is (did I mention I wisely planted this in shade?). No matter—ANY FLOWERS AT ALL will thrill you after seven years. We celebrated. ( I would have blogged this sooner, but that would represented a veritable feat of complex verbal expression, given my debilitated physical and spiritual state for most of today.)