Fishermen and Flowers

My husband, Don, loves to fish. He tells me that every time he makes a cast he anticipates finding a fish on the end of his line. On the rare occasions when I go with him, I never expect to hook a fish, which may have something to do with why I never catch any. It's possible that we all have some of that fisherman's optimism, just in different arenas. I have friends who, at every mealtime, assume they will whip up something delicious to eat, and every day, gourmet meals appear on their table. Go figure.

When I walk in the woods, I always presume that I'll find something special, and I'm never disappointed. It may be a whiff of verbena or light playing on the trees. Sometimes it's the 4-note song of the Chickadee or the melody of the stream, and I carry the memory of the music back home with me.

This spring has been exceptionally wet and the lake has filled the valley below us. After a rain, seasonal creeks gurgle in every hollow, and waterfalls tumble over rock ledges.

There were treasures in the woods today. A tiny orange mushroom stopped me in my tracks like a crossing guard. Brilliant Fire Pinks are blooming on the rocky slopes, their sticky stems ready to ensnare small insects that venture by.

Down near the lake, a Trillium is just ready to bloom, and I hope to be there when it happens. Trilliums are best enjoyed in the wild. They are fragile flowers and picking them may stunt their growth for years. I've noted the location so I can find it again. Not that I don't trust you all, but I'm not about to divulge my secret spot.

Maybe I have more in common with fishermen than I thought.

In Good Hands

One morning last week, just before dawn, we watched two yearling white-tailed deer play tag around the pond. They ran like the wind, their hooves scarcely touching the ground as they leaped in the air and splashed through the water. Once in a while, Bitsy (our name for the littlest female) would stop to catch her breath, but she'd sprint ahead as soon as Sundance (the youngest male) started to catch up. It was an expression of pure joy, and I could relate. I love spring.

A Carolina wren has taken up housekeeping in the creel on our front porch, just far enough from the phoebe's nest by the front door to avoid collisions. Now the wrens are busy bringing bugs back to their babies.

It's dark out this morning, and dogwood bracts on the coffee table appear to be floating in mid-air. Redbuds sparkle on the dining room table and wildflowers overflow small vases in the kitchen. Outside, one has to tiptoe to avoid stepping on a wildflower. 

These flora and fauna don't know that our country is in crisis. While everything around us is changing, a Rue Anemone pushes its way out of the earth and bobs in the breeze, right on schedule. It's a good reminder that their Maker and ours is still holding the world in His hands. We can sleep well. He is awake.

Free Flowers

Abundant rain followed by a string of hot days has resulted in a better than usual wildflower crop this year.  These flowers, in shades of blue and purple, presented themselves to me along the road as Barley and I walked the other morning, so I brought them home and photographed them in front of the flat screen TV.  They are labeled below. I love the larkspur, holding their wings as if they are going to lift off momentarily.  The wild bergamot always remind me of aliens, with delicate fringes at the ends of their antennae, and a minty fragrance.  On the left of the bouquet is one flower I haven't been able to find in my wildflower books.  It is quite delicate, like baby's breath, and it's light lavender blossoms are shaped like bells with scalloped edges.  If you know its name, I'd love to hear from you. 

A Bevy of Buttonbush Blossoms

An abundance of buttonbush 
blossoms along the shore 
of Bull Shoals Lake