I don't wear purple. I don't decorate with anything in the purple family. It is one of those incontrovertible 'fun facts' about me. At this moment I am fairly certain there is only one purple thing in my possession – my violets. 

African violets are surprisingly hard to come by it seems, for something that was such a staple of my youth. My grandmother cultivated many varieties on every north facing window in her home.  She painstakingly started little leaves in tiny juice glasses.  I remember watching the progression of those hair-fine roots as they first emerged and then slowly grew long enough to risk transplant. 

Many of her little plant babies eventually migrated to my bedroom's bay window in town.  In time a white, Victorian styled wheeled plant cart was full to overflowing with those plump fuzzy leaves.  It brought great joy to see those blooms.  It brought a bit of her as well.  Still does. 

I have a notoriously brown thumb and feared more than once that I had killed these. It turns out they have a blooming and dormant cycle.  When all hope seemed lost they came back again, though they are still a little peaked looking from overwatering.  They don't tolerate being waterlogged, nor do they take to watering from above, rather only from the roots below.  And they abhor getting their leaves wet.  It has the same effect as leaving a damp glass on the coffee table. You can find all the specifics here.  I hope to begin again this summer in the new house.