I was feeling very much on edge earlier today. Nothing calms me more than reflecting back to the springtime of my life when living was simple and life's little troubles were nothing at all.
The sun is shining brightly this Sunday afternoon. Spring violets hold their heads high and sway to and fro to the rhythm of a gentle breeze.
I look forward to the arrival of the little wildflowers every year. Violets always seemed to delight my mother similarly.
I can still see her spring bouquets that I picked for her when I was a child. She placed the often struggling fistfuls of squeezed stems and wilting blooms into a shiny silver coated metal drinking glass, or a Mason pint jar, added sufficient water, and placed them on the piano for all to enjoy.
Sometimes, I included amid the tokens of my love Sweet William, even broke off a sprig or two from a blooming native dogwood tree.
When Geneva Lynch was edgy or sad, that always was a fix that wiped away her tears and brought a beautiful smile to her face.
Mother lost two of her precious children in the springtime, in March of 1943.
The lilac bush bloomed, copiously, this year, far better than last. That reminds me of another lilac bush that I carry a mental picture of that stood close by the same spot of my planting, in the day. I am still gathering bouquets from that one. The fragrance of the blooms is still sweet.
My less-than-perfect and smaller bush provided a large bouquet today. I placed them in a Fostoria coin glass vase on the table. I, again, heard my mother's sweet songs heralding springtime, reasoning softly in my ears.
Then, out of nowhere, spring tonic came to mind.
That same familiar voice from my past reminded me it was time to clear the path.
I questioned: Should I gather wild greens? Find caster oil? And, more than that; is Fletcher's Castoria still on the market and senior friendly?
Could the edginess be because of ... or in lieu of ... the twinge making tonics of spring?
I quickly placed the idea on the back burner. I will pass on all of the aforementioned laxatives. I am still trying to deal with the prostate helper I told you about a couple of weeks ago. I wonder why the fixer-upper works so well for me. No wonder I am sleep deprived and on the edge lately.
Too much spring cleaning, if you ask me. I still have all the spring in my step that I need without another nightly nuisance.
Paul and I took a short walk in search of some mushrooms. We found another small one. One is less than we will need to create a pile-up on a decent size plate.
We look back to the year Paul's little sister, Lillie, came home from England. We invited her to join us on a mushroom hunt.
That year, we reaped the most successful finds ever. We spread our morels out on two sturdy full-sized homemade picnic tables beneath the maple tree.
Our hunting party of three didn't weight the mother load of the fungi that we came across that day, but you would have thought that we had struck gold. We found enough to keep our belly banks filled to the max. An overnight soak and extra attention given to the delicacies and we were eating like royalty for several days thereafter -- no commercial laxatives help needed.
I am reminded of similar luck that my dad and I once enjoyed during that ideal season, back in the late 40s, in a crabapple thicket near our place.
We did not find the yellow spongy mushrooms, then, but we filled our bread wrappers with another edible kind of long stemmed mushrooms -- best known as "half free" morels.
My brother came along that day carrying his new rod and reel and some live bait seined earlier from beneath the falls.
We ended the hunt and with mushrooms in hand, ambled down to the pit pond, a short walk beyond the thicket. Everyone was having a wonderful time.
Then, my brother, Johnny Wayne, cast his line and hooked it in a treetop behind us. We all became edgy, including his instructor, the seasoned mushroom hunter and fisherman in our party.
By the time the kid dealt with the preacher/teacher and his tangled line, we were more than ready to put our simple pleasures to rest until another day and headed home.
Dad whistled and called in his pack of beagles, and I clutched two full-waxed wrappers of thirsty mushrooms and kept up pace with my loved ones.
As for my brother, his minnow bucket was empty, the reel a tangled mess. The long-faced rod handler was mute and the entire trip back, but his body language spoke louder than words.
Reflecting back brings me closer to the end of another almost perfect day. Good night.
I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org.