Midori found the coolest thing in the New York Times the other day:

HELIGAN is the Rip van Winkle of gardens. Nurtured by successive generations of the Tremayne family for four centuries, it fell into disarray after almost all the workers who maintained it marched off to war in France in 1914. By the end of the 20th century, a jungle of ivy, bramble and laurel had engulfed flower beds and shrubs.

Three years later, a chance meeting led to his excited discovery and exploration, sometimes on hands and knees, of the overgrown acres. He and a group of enthusiastic associates subsequently leased the property and launched a crusade to save what they christened, with an unerring instinct for public relations, “The Lost Gardens of Heligan.”

Gorgeous weekend in New York City this weekend, absolutely delightful. Perfect for walking in Central Park and taking reference photos for certain artists, both of which I did. Unfortunately, the Treo camera wasn’t in top form, else I’d share some of the photos with you. Nonetheless, wow. It’s no Maine wildwoods of my youth, Acadia National Park or Pacific Northwestern forest, but that Central Park has a few things going for it. Lilac, for one. Which brings me to a message for all flower-selling bodega owners of my fair city: quit it with the charging me eight fricking dollars for a sprig of lilac, you cheapass bastards. I know that you’re just trying to make a living and everything, but you’re just alienating your clientele, at least those of us who grew up up north and know what nature shouldn’t cost. Or something.

Anyway.

Don’t mind me; I just remember what those lilac bushes in the back of my house, back in the day, and I get a little worked up.