I love morning glories. I love that they bloom in the morning and I love how profuse they are. Virginia, in fact, considers them an invasive species, but I can't help myself; I love them. I mostly grow Grandpa Otts, and I love them the best, but this year I tried a new variety called Carnivale. They're nice; not sure I'd grow them again, but they're nice.
The other morning, one of the squirrels was climbing up on the deck, rooting around in the morning glory vines, and very deliberately picking and eating the small "bulb" at the end of the finished flower that, uneaten, would go on to become the seed pod. Oddly, she ignored the rose hips to get to the morning glories. Are they psychotropic for squirrels? I don't begrudge her; I'll get hundreds of seeds and she's hungry, here, just before the acorns come in.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."