“For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing
of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle (dove) is
heard in our land . . . “
The Bible’s “The Song of Solomon” is surely one of the loveliest pieces of poetry ever written, and it describes spring perfectly although our Indiana rains aren’t over.
Easter is the prelude to spring. Easter bunnies, chicks and eggs symbolize new life. The basket of candy that we put out had a chocolate rabbit and marshmallow peeps, and I made deviled eggs.
Kitchen Disaster: The incomparable Julia Child dropped the fish on the floor, picked it up and threw it in the pot, intoning in her high-pitched voice, “You are all alone in the kitchen!” It was a good thing that I was alone after I boiled 18 eggs as my language was most unladylike. (Come to think of it, I’ve never claimed to be a lady!)
I was always rather proud of my deviled eggs. Pride goeth before a fall. The shells stuck like glue and came off in quarter-inch bits. Some of the whites split, and I tried to cement them back together with the yolk mixture — didn’t work. All of them looked as if mice had nibbled at them. I thought about trying to disguise them with sprigs of fresh parsley, but that would have fooled no one.
Squirrelie has become very demanding. He races up and down the corner of the greenhouse window, making as much racket as he can to get our attention. I’ve mentioned how Pavlov conditioned a dog to salivate when a bell was rung. Perhaps Bill and I are the experimental animals who respond to Squirrelie’s whims. Mary Jo, a niece, wrote that she thought that a bird was taking the stuffing from the cushion of a lawn chair. Not so! She caught a squirrel with its head in the cushion, stealing stuffing to pad its nest.
Just as Indian summer is a brief, ephemeral time, so too are the early days of spring. On Sunday morning there was no sign of our bloodroots. Lo and behold, by evening they were there! The big lilac bush has tiny leaves, and the magnolia’s blooms opened yesterday. This is also the time for the spring cleaning of yards. I do very little gardening, having neither the talent nor the taste for it, but I rake the leaves out of flower beds and pick up the many sticks that fall from our trees during winter winds.
It was springtime in my heart when I sat on my Rollator under the our splendid oak tree and admired its graceful limbs displayed against the sky in that special, clear light that one sees only in springtime. The golden daffodils in front of the greenhouse window nodded in the gentle breeze. Squirrelie and a pair of doves peacefully gleaned seeds under the feeder while a robin cocked its head, listening for worms.
The wintertime silence of the birds has ended. Above me a chirping chickadee flitted from branch to branch. A woodpecker was thrumming softly back in the little woods behind our yard. A cardinal was joyfully whistling, “Cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer!” Sometimes his call is, “Wheat, wheat, wheat, wheat!” I love the song of the redwing blackbird who visits the feeder, “Cree, cree . . .”
Ah, the quietude of a balmy spring afternoon spent with flowers and singing birds. One’s interior monologue quiets down and one is at peace with one’s self and the world! Too rare . . . and too brief a time! wclarke@comcast.net P.S. A chill rain has shredded the bloodroot blossoms, and the daffodils and narcissus are bent over. Oh well . . . this is Indiana, after all.