Picking Poppies . . . what's behind the name

"Picking Poppies", it has absolutely nothing to do with flowers,

and everything to do with picking . . .  weeds that is.

You see,

I knew someone who was very generous, and

not just because he gave often, but because he gave so much of what he had.

Who grew rhubarb in his garden,

 which was that one thing he would always want to show you when you came to visit.

 Yes, he was proud of that rhubarb.

And speaking of visits,

for as long as I can remember he had one every afternoon from a duck

and when he was tired, he would put his head in his pocket and fall asleep.

It was not unusual to find this someone in a white tank top, with his pants rolled up,
some leather driving slippers and his sailor hat.

Oh yes, I can't forget his white socks of course!
And you would, while you were visiting, most often find him in his yard
with a bucket and his dibble
and that is where we had some of our best conversations . . . picking weeds.
This someone loved me,
and I loved him back.
He was my grandfather . . . I called him Poppy.

I'm pretty sure he would be tickled to know that I named my blog after him, and even more so

at the technology of digital photography. I'm not sure how old he is in this photo, but isn't

he a handsome guy!  I miss you to the moon and back!!

Love, Kim

XO