Spring is coming

Soon, Spring will arrive to lift our spirits and brighten our days. Only yesterday did we move to Brownsburg from Brazil.

The truth is, we have been here 10 years, since Valentine’s Day in February 2014.

On gloomy days like today, the season of renewal can’t begin to arrive soon enough.

I look for early signs and favor anything Mother Nature can provide.

Even an emerging blade or two of the hardy crocus along my fence line or the mated pair of Canadian geese are welcome to honk as they pass through my yard to the next-door feed bank.

Paul has not been feeling his best lately. More testing will occur this week at Richard Roudebush Medical Center in Indianapolis. His medical needs are many, and we are thankful they are being addressed.

He loves watching the construction of an annex to Brownsburg High School that will accommodate 1000 students and is to be completed by 2026. The large tennis court will be built at another location on the property. The ditch next to our backyard is gone as well.

We both look forward to our little vegetable garden and other planned activities with family and friends. It is nice we still have good seeds to sow in our plan.

Now, I await the gentle breezes, the show of hardy crocuses, and the melodic trills of the birds of Spring.

One nice thing is we weathered another winter together to see the crocuses bloom again.

Paul likes for me to read good books to him on a myriad of subjects. I chose my book, “Soul Balm,” written by Paul Pickett in 1869-1960. Yes, Paul Pickett’s book is full of wit and wisdom, and he included “blues cures” to share on this lazy afternoon.

The Indiana poet and teacher wore many hats during his lifetime, and in many ways, in so many ways, Mr. Pickett reminded me of my father: They did things their way.

THE UNSEASONAL CROCUS

Mr. Bokus

Bought a crocus

In the winter season, drear;

And the crocus

Cost poor Bokus

For a “poor cuss,” pretty dear.

Mr. Bokus

Sent the crocus

To a lady he admired;

But the crocus

Failed to focus

As poor Bokus had desired

Does he joke with us

With his crocus?”

Shrieked the lady, full of ire,

“Does he think he has bespoken

We’ve become a locus

And a focus for a locus?

By the Gods of Hokey-pokus

Bokus has a punctured tire.

No more Bokus,

This has broken us.”

Then she threw the crocus into the blazing fire.

BY Paul Pickett

Reach me by phone at 317-286-7352.