Women Among The Pines

Late February is when the violets appear in woodland areas where I live. Larger purple ones that are obvious in their beauty, and tiny barely visible white ones that smell like heaven. One simply has to get down on hands and knees and inhale that fragrance. 

My cousin, Marjorie's, birthday is always celebrated by going where the violets are, for a picnic or a meandering stroll through the woods to search for violets. This has been going on as long as I can remember. We use to go to a place we called the valley. That was always a picnic. I remember my aunt Pat frying eggs over a fire to make fried egg and bacon sandwiches. I remember the runny yoke dripping off of my chin and onto my shirt. I was very, very young.

These days we go to the Sandhill Crane Refuge, We are older now, and the group is usually made up of Marjorie, my sister, several friends, and me. We still search for violets. I still get down on my hands and knees to inhale the white ones. And we walk the long trail that starts near the visitor's center. We never see the cranes, but one can imagine them walking with elegant grace through those golden grasses. Cranes or not, this is one of the most beautiful places I know, especially in the spring.

I have been sick this week: one of those mysterious illnesses that make your head feel like it is full of glue and your stomach churns pretty constantly. Did I say saps your energy? Oh dear... I am really not over it yet. But I did want to share a few of these. Extras, too... Whoops... My violets got flipped on their sides. Don't know why that happens. Oh well...

My commenting will be sparse until I feel better. Hopefully, tomorrow...