by
Jean Hughes
April 24, 1995
The hills are getting ready for the celebration of the coming of May: Bloom! Bloom! Bloom!

Hillsides are covered with senecio, fire pinks and sweet-smelling phlox. I walk to a quiet spot that I have never visited on a spring morning, and sit on an old rotted log.

The hillside is covered with tender blossoms. A cardinal sings so close that his voice sounds as if it were coming from a deep well. A white-crowned sparrow whistles softly and clearly. Off in the distance I can hear a robin and a mourning dove.

No heart but mine hears or sees the beauty of this spot at this moment. I sit alone in a natural paradise. It is as though the beauty of these hills is just for me. The flowers, trees and birds are mine, and I am theirs.

I hum a little tune as I stroll down to the creek. In dappled shade, I stoop to look at the wildflowers around my feet. A toad jumps in front of me and sits, as if thinking he is camouflaged. On an impulse, I reach down and gently scratch his back. He stays completely still. I am amazed. He does not hop away until I stop scratching.

It is these moments of toads and wildflowers, these moments of camaraderie with the earth and its creatures, that let the joy of life into my heart.

Only the early bird catches the spring dawns that break into frenzies of color. This morning, I am up at first light to walk my road. From the top of the sycamore tree, a meadowlark sings its hello. Field sparrows flit and trill. Indigo buntings throw squeaky medleys to the break of day.

In the fields, thousands of tiny spiders are busy making homes on last year's brown flower stalks. They weave gossamer webs about four inches across. The field is a circus of silken puffs that sway in the wind. On each puff, a speck-of-a-spider balances on its tightropes and spins about the business of spider life.

Spring violets are strewn along every pathway, now. They bloom in waves and mingle with the grass in my front yard. The wild creeps all the way to my door.


In my garden, deep-red, swirled leaves foretell rhubarb pies, sauce, jam and cakes.
Rhubarb Cake
Cream: 1 cup brown sugar, 1/2 cup white sugar and 
1/2 cup shortening.
Mix in, in order given: 1 egg and 1 cup buttermilk.
Sift in, and mix well: 2 cups flour and 1 t. baking soda.
Fold in: 1 1/2 cups rhubarb, sliced very fine.
Pour into a greased 8-by-11-inch pan.
Mix and sprinkle over top: 1/2 cup sugar and 1 t. cinnamon.
Bake at 350 degrees for 35 to 40 minutes.
I stand in the last of twilight and watch new-budded trees turn amber-gold. I hear my first bobwhite of the season, and the answering whistle of his mate. Last night, a whippoorwill serenaded from dusk till dawn. His song begins again, so steady and so rhythmic.

* * *
In spring, as at no other season, the continuity of life becomes clear. Life goes on. Beauty goes on. Love goes on. And, oh, how the dandelions go on and on.

My heart fills with glee when I step out my door and see the first dandelion blossoms Unlike many who malign these little beauties, I would cultivate them if they did not grow so profusely with no help from me. I cannot be demure about wildflowers. They enchant me.

Blossom Beat

April took me by the hand, pulled me to the hillsides, and
mesmerized my heart for hours in her hollowfuls of flowers.
Made me dance on foolish feet till my heart is blossom beat.
Surely, May will get me back on a sane and sober track.
May, I'm going to count on you not to flower-charm me too.
Cause, in Aprilated spring, I'm no good for anything.

Copyright 1995, Jean Hughes.

Jean's book of ramblings and recipes "A Country Mile of Winter" and her book of poetry "The Earth's My Home" are available for $4.95 each plus $1.30 for postage and handling. Her nature letter "Diary of a Back Yard Naturalist", published 5 times yearly, is available for $12.50 per year. Ten of Jean's favorite recipes will be included free with each book or nature letter ordered. Order from...

Country Mile Publications
616 E. Monroe St.
Delphi, Indiana 46923

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