Violets on Earth

I have not much to say today that springtime can't say for me. First, April has had numerous sunless days. After several sunless days, turning into weeks, of no visitors and no visiting, fewer phone calls because we're all in shock and can barely mumble, and all aware we are all in the same waterlogged boat, and this is real life -- a sunny day and noticing violets at my feet felt like spiritual sustenance. I don't grow these. They're 100 percent free random grace.

Happy Earth Day!

May Flowers

The most inexplicably shaped and colored woodland wildflowers bloom in May, right now, and these were found at Glassberg Conservation Area: Dwarf Larkspur ("of the buttercup family," says the Ozark Wildflowers guide; what a wonderful family!) and Columbine, also called "aquilegia" (above). The guide says of the columbine, "Omaha and Ponca men rubbed pulverized seed on their palms as a love potion before shaking hands with a loved one. This practice was also supposed to make them more persuasive when speaking to a council." Guess I'll go back and pick it. (No, I won't really.)

How I Got to Live Here

A typed 3"x5" file card tacked up on a bulletin board at the university where I worked said a rural rental property was subletting for a year at $400 a month. I'd been living in a low-rent (bullet holes in my windshield) area of St. Louis for a decade and pined for change. I'd also been visualizing my ideal home: in the woods, near a creek, where night looked like night; I'd even taped up a picture cut from Reader's Digest. Given my situation it was a foolish impossible pipe dream. I phoned. A Dutch physics professor and his artist wife about to tour the world for a year said they sought someone clean and neat who'd occupy the house and care for their cat.
I drove 35 miles from town, increasingly enchanted by the hills and greenery. It was April. Found a little white house with green shutters and door, shaded by old hickory and oak trees (at that time I couldn't tell them apart). I glanced through the kitchen window at the porch and fell in love. The original three rooms of the house was a log cabin. Awkward additions had been tacked on. It came with 100 acres of Ozark foothills. My first night here was in June. I had no bed yet. I lay on the bedroom floor on blankets, the windows open wide to hear everything. The house is on a sandstone cliff, so when I looked out I saw starry sky. The cat was a sweet companion.

After 14 months the couple returned. I asked to be informed if they ever moved away so I could ask to be next to rent it. Moved back to the city and two years and two months later, on Oct. 1, 2001, I moved back into the Divine Cabin and they will take me out feet first. In order to stay here I have refused offers of good jobs and marriage. This old, drafty, complicated house requires hiring people to help me out but I'd rather do that than live somewhere with fewer challenges. The gorgeous stone fireplace doesn't work. The moldy, leaky, ugly, 4x8 bathroom (yes, it's the only bathroom) with the rusted hot-water heater got torn out and updated just this past year. (There's still no bathtub.) Nearly every morning from March through late November I have morning coffee or tea on the stone porch. It is my box seat on the universe. In the city, Summer Solstice meant nothing. Here it means everything.

Happy Summer Solstice June 20 at 6:09 p.m. CDT. Please celebrate anytime that life on earth is a peak experience. This is a meadow celebrating itself, across Highway F, not 50 feet from the LaBarque Creek.

Rarities of Spring - This Week Only!

Temperatures have hit the 80s for most of March so far, making everyone wonder how monstrously hot our summer is going to be, and sparking April flowers weeks ahead of time. But while living in the now, everyone's crazy 'bout the flowers: spring beauties, dutchman's breeches, redbuds, magnolias, daffodils, phlox (always phlox) and wildflowers, like these tiny, tiny four-petaled bluets (Haedyotis caerulea), an annual which forms mats in my south-facing lawn and won't share its space with other wildflowers. And then wild Dutchman's Breeches (Dicentra cucullaria) behind the garage, the only place they grow on my whole acreage. Like the bluets, getting about 10 days to express their fullest beauty. Their puffy blooms nod in the light wind. Golly. We must all deserve these things! Wildflowers like a pastry shop for the eyes! And just go to the garden section at K-Mart or Wal-Mart! Or rather, don't, right now. It's mobbed by people hungry for plants, greenery, vegetables, divine beauty, and volunteering huge portions of their lives to grow it. Also called "gardeners."

"People Who Never Wear Clothes"

In Girl Scout camp I told the counselors I wanted to become a naturalist. They kind of looked at each other, and one explained, "Those are people who never wear clothes." Embarrassed, I forgot about becoming a naturalist. But they had confused that word with "naturist," another name for nudist. Moral of the story: When you talk to children about their futures, know what you are talking about, especially when you are a camp counselor and an eight-year-old tells you she wants to be a naturalist.

I became a naturalist anyway, and along the road (wearing clothes, mind you) found orchid-shaped, beautiful mauve-and maroon-colored blossoms I couldn't find in the Ozark wildflower field guide, which is arranged by flower color. Color is tricky: different soils produce different shades and intensities, and these could be  described as red, pink, purple, blue, or even brown flowers. I finally said, "Maybe it's not native," but, unable to stand a mystery, went back and plucked a blossom to study it further. No dice. Gave up. On another walk I saw it again, this time with its fruit attached and intact: a bean.

Pleased to tell you this wildly lovely flower is a Wild Bean (Strophostyles helvula) and a native plant. And it's in the field guide, but shown only with the bean!

Sweet Love

Honeybee in a wild rose today. Don't believe the doomsayers who claim they're all gone.