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As I pondered what to write about for this week’s column, I couldn’t help but be distracted by what was happening outside. Spring is here and the trees, grass and weather seem to be, finally, catching up to the calendar. I am not sure if it was just me, but April felt a bit cooler than what is typical. That is, it felt cooler in comparison to the past few years. At least this is what my heating bill indicated. Regardless, as if a green painted landscape is suddenly switched to the on position, from one day to the next, I notice that the landscape has changed. At least that is what my itchy nose and leaky eyes indicate.
And so, as I consider my column topic, I am drawn to wanting to write about the allergy-ridden beauty of Spring. But then I looked back over the years. It appears, around this time of year, every year, I write such a column. It has, I will admit, sort of become an annual tradition. Who am I to change it now? But rather than write about the beauty of nature or the allergy havoc it wreaks for so many, I would like to offer this year’s Spring column about a new, yet related, topic: picking “flowers”.
This past weekend, I popped in to spend some time with my young grandkids. I found them playing outside and after I received their wonderful love-filled greetings, they were excited to present me with a small bouquet of flowers they had picked. The flowers were the colorful pops of Spring weeds, but they immediately invoked a warmth and nostalgia in my heart. I remembered when my daughter, as a young child, used to pick the dandelions for me, insisting that I put them in water and arrange them as a centerpiece for the kitchen table. Further, I also remembered when I was a young child and picked these Spring-signaling flowers for my own mother.
At first, dandelions seem quite robust with a strong stem. However, the minute they are plucked, the stem seems to give way and the top droops. When a whole bouquet is picked and presented, the grasp of little hands can further compound the droopiness. As a very young child, I couldn’t tell the difference. Neither could my grandkids. They presented me with a wilted and droopy bouquet. However, their enthusiasm associated with their gift usurped the state of the bouquet. I deemed it one of the prettiest bundles of flowers I had ever received.
I certainly know that my grandchildren can pick flowers all summer long. But there is something special about picking and receiving that first Spring bouquet of flower weeds. Perhaps it’s because these ubiquitous yellow flowers are a visual reminder that Spring has really sprung. Or maybe it’s just because after Spring springs, lawn mowing erases these flower weeds, leaving behind only the fresh smell of grass… and a trail of sneezes. Rooted. Rooted.
Kathy Naumann, possessor of NATURALLY curly hair and the understanding that you can’t control everything!
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