Helenium

In the 1950s, the landlord had a back yard with a shady tree. I used to put the playpen under the tree and kneel by it, trying to plant or weed. Don't recall any result except that a stray kitten began to hang round me and the playpen, and so ingratiated itself that when we moved to Hinsdale, we went to a lot of trouble to safely bring with us a totally outdoor cat. God only knew what was on that cat, we didn't let it touch kids, but it loyally spent hours surveying the buggy with Beth in it, making sure nobody bothered that buggy. Truly an alley cat, it didn't want petting, which it didn't get; it did get fed very regularly.

When I was a kid, I'd been allowed to have a "basement" cat, not allowed in the living rooms but it hung out on the top stair. Yes, open the door to go down to the basement, and there'd be that cat, right in the way. Not ideal. It got petted a lot. Mrs. Spry, the neighbor on the far corner, did try to educate me and my family to vets and spaying, but farm families transported to suburbs don't spend on vets even for basement cats. On the other hand, my mother did teach kittens to jump rope. We humans held the ends of the rope.

The library in Hinsdale had books on gardening, and I got hold of The Lazy Gardener by some lovely writer who strongly and gaily recommended helenium, growing in masses, and taking totally no care. After lo, these many years, I did last year get hold of some helenium, the Mardi Gras lately developed, from Bluestone, and I am quite happy with it. Haven't got any twelve feet tall stretches -- that's what I pictured in the book -- they're short and heavily floral and quite sturdy and like drought.