This blob of color is from a neglected geranium. It's from the same house that pulled up the poppies but replanted the seeds. Geraniums grow anywhere, and almost thrive on neglect, but they require a great deal of attention and skill to be properly maintained. Poppies, on the other hand, just grow and grow.

When I was a boy we lived in Torrance. It was still covered here and there with disused oil derricks. In those days, profit was profit, and there was no profit in dismantling disused oil derricks. Today, I doubt there is a single vacant lot in all of Torrance. Hawthorn Blvd., the largest street in Torrance simply stopped around Torrance Blvd., an east west street that now takes people to the beach. And Torrance Blvd. also stopped in almost the same place, but continued in good weather as a dirt trail to Redondo Beach and then started up again. We lived on the edge of nothing.

Above this mess was Palos Verdes, a hill with significant plantings on top — bean fields mainly — but with a section to the west filled with expensive homes. Today there is hardly a vacant lot there either. The style was Mediterranean. CC&Rs required tile roofs and an art jury to make sure everything was meticulously fake. In other words, to look like it came from somewhere on the Mediterranean. My father, who worked nine months a year, supplemented his income in the summers by doing landscaping. He could look at empty yards and see the final product. He could landscape completely in his head.

So his favorite pastime, other than golf, was driving around on Sunday looking at houses. I probably drove past every house from Newport Beach to Santa Monica. I know that sounds like an exaggeration, but we saw lots and lots of houses, and picked lots and lots of leaves off plants and trees to discuss with nurserymen. Today I think the style of these houses would drive me crazy, but a characteristic of many of the imposing structures in Palos Verdes was large clay pots of flowers on pedestals next to the front door. Beautiful tufts of white, pink, red, and sometimes mixed. An even profusion of perfect blooms. They were geraniums. Perfect geraniums that I now believe were grown in small greenhouses and rotated to the front porch. Not by the owners, of course, but by the gardeners.

So while the houses and the fake antiques would drive me crazy, I think I could live all day long with perfect tufts of geranium blooms. I believe this because even this forlorn, neglected geranium gives me a tinge of happiness that is truly difficult to explain.