The real dope on my poppies

This godforsaken orange poppy was, as the story goes, also loathed by my garden predecessor, Nelly. She spent all of her life in this house except for the first few years, and she lived to be 95 or so. In her latter years she enlisted her nephew's help around her home and garden. One of his tasks that I know about - besides wheeling pea coal in the back walk via battered antique baby carriage - was whacking down the Oriental poppies, to prevent Nelly from being arrested by the Feds... Apparently she thought her Oriental poppies were opium poppies, or perhaps she just thought the Feds wouldn't know any better, which likely they don't. In any case, Matt and I now grow enough opium poppies in the backyard to make Nelly roll over in her grave continuously throughout the month of July.

The reason I hate these screaming orange poppies is that they broil up out of the ground each spring and pour like molten lava all through my strawberry patch, and they're impossible to pull out. At least they're good lookin.