Pressing flowers reminds me of my grandmother, my childhood, old books, and diaries. It seems a nostalgic act that captures a moment and creates a beautiful keepsake. I picture Victorian Living Rooms and the gardens that supplied them with a fresh vase of flowers. I can almost hear the ticking of the grandfather clock just around the corner in the entrance hall. The incredible floral wall paper and the smell of homemade baked goods coming from the wood stove in the kitchen. A copper kettle boiling the water that would soon brew the tea to be placed on the dollies that cover the end table near the lovely chair in front of the lace covered windows. A slow and tranquil peaceful moment when the precious joys of a bountiful garden were fulfillment enough for the day.
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