My parent's yard used to be filled with my Mother's careful plantings, my Father's random finds, and, as I recently discovered when delving into their history, a clue into their lives before they were parents.  

My father had helped plant Pansy's in my Mother's little  garden  in Ankorage, Alaska where she and her Mother were living at the time.  In a couple of his love letters he commented on receiving the pressed flower in one of her letters and how he had loved the day he had helped plant the garden.  I wonder no longer why her trips to the nursery always included Pansy's and why even  he, took a fancy to the flowers.  

These are remnants of those long ago plantings in between long overgrown perennial gardens.