Sunday poem and pictures

I could not find a decent Father's Day poem so I'll just post that hoary old favorite by some sensible but anonymous author:

My Father

When I was:

Four years old: My daddy can do anything.
Five years old: My daddy knows a whole lot.
Six years old: My dad is smarter than your dad.
Eight years old: My dad doesn't know exactly everything.
Ten years old: In the olden days, when my dad grew up, things were sure different.
Twelve years old: Oh, well, naturally, Dad doesn't know anything about that. He is too old to remember his childhood.
Fourteen years old: Don't pay any attention to my dad. He is so old-fashioned.
Twenty-one years old: Him? My Lord, he's hopelessly out of date.
Twenty-five years old: Dad knows about it, but then he should, because he has been around so long.
Thirty years old: Maybe we should ask Dad what he thinks. After all, he's had a lot of experience.
Thirty-five years old: I'm not doing a single thing until I talk to Dad.
Forty years old: I wonder how Dad would have handled it. He was so wise.
Fifty years old: I'd give anything if Dad were here now so I could talk this over with him. Too bad I didn't appreciate how smart he was. I could have learned a lot from him.

The watsonia is another South African lily (related to gladiolus) which thrives in the West Coast climate. I brought my watsonia bulbs from San Francisco when I moved here and planted them around the edge of the lawn and just let them grow informally as they keep multiplying and end up forming huge clumps.

The top two pics are of watsonias growing wild in South Africa. The next two pics are of the bulbs that I planted in my garden here in Oregon. The next three pics are close-ups of the white and pink versions which occur naturally and the last pic is of all the different colored hybrids which are now available.