As a child, so much of my time was spent outdoors. I remember traversing the grounds of our childhood home for countless hours examining every flower with great detail.
Using the term "grounds" to describe where I grew up, may create an illusion of grandeur. That was not the case. We were poor. The old farm house we lived in was over 100 years old and needed more care than our budget could possibly provide, but it wasn't hard to imagine that back in its day, it was a glorious place. From the old, pine wood floors to the antique french doors we found propped up against the stone foundation in the dirt basement, evidence was all around that this was a place about town, but nothing was more prominent than the gardens. It was there that no attention to detail was missed and to me, it was magical.
The front yard. It was always the front yard where my daily exploration began. There, two majestic maple trees stood as if on guard. I remember one winter, my father made a valiant, but futile attempt to collect their sap to make syrup. I remember trudging out through the newly drifted snow, only to return with more snow in my boots than sap in the buckets. In the summer, however, there were treasures abound and it was there that I realized how important this land was to the lady of the house. She had not missed a single detail down to the very last shady crevice. Violets, that were strategically placed in the shade of the trees had now grown wild throughout the grass. I would drop to my knees and gently comb the blades of grass to uncover the purple gems. It was as if someone had hidden secret little gifts that only I could find. (Story to continue...)
