Blowin’ In: The Garden in May

“When I looked down from the bridge

Trout were flipping the sky

Into smithereens, the stones

The wall warmed me.

Wading green stems, lugs of leaf . . .

Over the soft fontanel

Of Ireland. . .

I’m out to find that village,

Its low sills fragrant

With lady smock and celandine. . .”

(“May” by Seamus Heaney)

Soon asparagus will begin to push their violet heads through the detritus of late winter. Beneath spent blossoms dried and flaking like old parchment, a carpet of dwarf crocus rises mushroom-like heralding spring’s arrival.

Days continue to lengthen, spreading twilight shadows across the garden beds. Magic manifests upon fragrant magnolia winds and apple blossom showers. Spring is our reward for patiently wading through the darkness of winter.

With great enthusiasm, the birds and beasts of nature usher in the change of seasons. Birdsong begins with May dawn and serenades the earth to sleep at dusk. Red-breasted robins begin to nest; apple blossom trees veil blue-speckled eggs from hungry hawks. A fragrant canopy indeed.

Rabbits burrow deeper into our spring pea patch to birth their kittens. Truth be told, it is a struggle every year to keep our English Springer Spaniel away from the den of the mother rabbit.

If the kittens survive and grow into young rabbits, they spring and hop more rapidly than our Lucy could ever run; each morning the race is on as the dog chases the flash of cottontail over garden beds and dandelion-covered lawn. A family of blue jays chirp a lively tattoo warning of Lucy’s arrival.

Excited by the game, the squirrels tease my spaniel; lithely scampering atop the fence with the grace of tightrope walkers. Their antics are true diversionary tactics as Lucy changes course.

The smells of the earth are almost too much for our Lucy to bear. Nudging the ground with the desperation of an anteater, Lucy raises her snout to the scent of creatures that float like phantoms on the wind.

As May continues to warm, toads awaken from hibernation, hiding beneath clusters of English ivy. Lucy pounces about trying to catch the toads, but they are wise creatures, rolling belly-up, seemingly lifeless. Lucy barks until we come running, spade in hand, to scoop up the unassuming toad and place it safely through the hole in our old fence.

My love for nature began with summers spent on my Uncle’s Missouri farm. With the curiosity of a springer spaniel, I would hunt for bullfrogs in the pond and stand statue still waiting for the evening chorus of crickets.

My mother would collect me from the farm and bring me back to my grandmother’s farmhouse. Bathed for the night, I could not wait to throw my dirty clothes back on in the morning and set out for new adventures that awaited in the fields.

My mother and grandmother taught me how to identify the flora and fauna with simple games. Mim would hold my hand and we would swing around her mulberry bush singing the familiar nursery song, pausing to listen for birdsong in the old oak trees that shaded the farmhouse.

On quiet afternoons, my mother and I would walk to the Dairy Queen in town. She taught me to identify ditch lilies and daisies, fragrant roses and hollyhocks. We would collect clusters of dandelions to bring back to my grandmother.

When my children were young, I would play the “Guess the Flower” game with them. Like my mother before me, I hoped that one day they would know the difference between a tulip and a daffodil.

On a recent holiday to Ireland, my grown son and daughter humored me by playing the “Guess the fFlower game as we walked along a quiet road near Clew Bay. Our footpath was thronged with towering pink foxglove and a host of otherworldly flora.

Although we could not identify all the flowers, we enjoyed the beauty of the moment. This mother’s heart was truly full.

A child of May, I will raise my nose, spaniel-like, toward the blue skies. Delighting in the fragrance of blooming lilacs and apple trees, I will honor the country’s wisdom and simple delights that my mother, aunts, and grandmothers held dear. I do not need to search for that village where a lady’s smock blooms, as it blooms in my heart each year.

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