An Old Fashioned Flower Shoppe

The sun shone intricately across the last of the spring snow. Glimmering icicles hung onto rooftops. She had pined over her Burpee seed catalogue for months. Somewhere underneath the cold bruised soil, an awakening was on the rise. Winter earlier that year had crept in like a teenager in the night. It had brought with it a frozen plant of silver ice crystals. Now late April, a splendor of color graced the landscape. Essences of harmony were in the air. Buds would soon begin to unfold like butterfly wings out of a cocoon. She knew where to look, there in the sweet green pasture grasses. It was like a game of hide and seek. Whose little petals would showcase themselves in this fashion show?

Buttercups had always been first on stage. Stretching and yawning, their cheery disposition was quite a sight. Dewdrops clinging upon golden bonnets. The orchards would soon spill out, taking the field like a high school drill team. All in precision, showing a 70’s heady look. What a glorious merriment! This was indeed a renewal. A spiritual endeavor , a high jacking of senses. She had been at her grandmother’s last Sunday with her father. She loved the long drive, farmlands in mid plow. The smells from her grandmother’s kitchen, flour and chicken frying in a well seasoned cast iron pan. Sunday dinner was family time a gathering. For her it was a time to slip outside into the yard. A savvy gardener she was! Amoung the concrete steps, they freshened themselves in the early dawn. Blue moon Dutch crocus’s held hands with grape hyacinths, a mixed arrangement, a marriage, a twinkling of fragrances kissing the air. This would not be her first encounter. Mother Nature had been striking her wizardry, like a blacksmith, forging the iron. They had a alliance of rules. This truly was a king’s gala. She was not really here to buy flowers. What a shoppe of characters! A trade off between them, she had always brought the refreshments. Bumble bees, and dandelions, a hippie masquerade mixer.

A parade stood before her, she marched with hands outstretched land sliding fingers into blossoms. They trumpeted like Tasmania black swans. She curtsied, and lowered her eyes. Such royalty! Navajo whites, ballet slipper pinks, branches with fresh bark spun themselves into the cyan blue sky. Robins and song sparrows flitted about in unison. Her senses journeyed upward. Blossoms of crab apple trees, and plums poured out like a fountain. Apple ornamentals of cinnamon and clove mingled with sweet honeysuckle. Hunter green lanced shape leaves banded them like a hodgepodge.The waving tall grasses swayed in the breeze. Johnny Jump Up’s smiled with their shamrock faces, little woodland nymphs in a folklore grotto. She scanned the rolling hillside of her parents farm. Bluebells rang out like a morning church service. Her patchwork basket was adorned with pastel ribbons. She stood taking in this grandeur. She closed her eyes and asked Mother May I ? A child’s game she had not played in many years. She reached into her dress pocket and pulled out her packets of seeds. Another trade off to give back to her. She creating a photograph that no camera lens could capture. Twirling round and round her petticoats spinning like a top. Her secret garden, there was no other place where she felt so alive. She returned to the orchard and climbed the soft branches. The view reminded her of hot air balloons on a summer day taking flight. She could see the old farmhouse peeking above the worn chimney. It too had aged gracefully. She could see the morning glories had etched along the thinning wood. She was five again, sitting on the old tractor tire. Her mother’s petunias we’re quietly sleeping. Everything her mother touched became a musical, a coat of arms. They would arrange like flecks of paint on a canvas. The lilacs we’re cheering each other through tinted sunglasses. Their hues were lovely. Purple hazes, pale violets, and creamy whites. They filled the air with wild berry scents. It encircled here head like her grandfather’s cherry pipe tobacco . She laughed from her high perch. The comical buzzing of nectar warriors caught her attention. They worked each blossom and moved like silly marionette’s. She would tell this story one day. The beginning when one’s beliefs enhance dreams. Your age at this time does not matter. A girl, a teenager a woman. We are in a love affair with flowers. We would travel to foreign lands seeking solitude. We have seen this behavior before. What is it that we are truly seeking? We know this movie, it’s playing all over the world. We are the writers, the buyers and the sellers. Creative, imaginative scholars. We’re our own story, we have given ourselves permission to bloom. Often showy and subtle, riding bicycles downhill with our bare feet off the pedals. Our vases filled with our own artwork. A painting of inner souls, simple moments, hidden treasures. We put on our best dress, visionaries, knights of magical light. Village townships play a Brazilian Samba. Spectators of baskets line the streets. Shades of colors tint the windows, reflecting an mirroring. Serendipity, a violin sonata a joyous symphony. Cobble streets , tapping heels, a good fortune. A kaleidoscope of headbands caressing colorful locks. Utopian at her best, side stepping jubilee’s. Sailing in like moonbeams on a river, sweeping the sidewalks in a bizarre stroll. Only a gypsy would understand. Gale force winds could not drag us away A paradox, blinded by our obsession.Weaving in and out like a patchwork quilt we caress each individual flower. Personal, and intimate. Common sense has gone by the wayside. This is a revelation, a wanting a freedom. Traveling in circles, bonded by our passions. This unending of friendship that brings us together. This is my childhood story. Not forgotten, a first hand tell, a sharing. An unlocking of my flower shopping spree. Fields, mountain meadows, seeking what is wild, calling your name. Springtime in Idaho.