Anticipation [CCR]

As we approach February we prepare ourselves for winter’s last stand and we begin our search on the horizon for the first signs of spring. Mom always said to never wish your life away, but I reckon there is nothing wrong with anticipation. I spent an entire day this past weekend honing that anticipation by working on the fence again. I am determined to have the lower pasture ready for occupation by the time spring breaks through the damp winter soil.

Some of my most pleasant memories of spring’s approach are Grandmother Smith’s tulips. Their driveway split as you approached the house. One drive entered the front yard while the other circled to the back of the house. Right past that split in the road was the habitat of one of the most memorable ensemble of tulips. The colors varied from light pastels to bright vivid colors that capture your attention. I’m not sure how much time Grandmother spent cultivating these forecasters of warmer weather, but they returned faithfully each year.

The tulips seemed to remain in bloom for us until the passage of Easter. The color variations always made a wonderful location to hide the Easter eggs. It didn’t take long for me to figure out to make my first hunting pass by the tulips where a pastel or brightly colored egg lay in the camouflage of the tulip’s blooms. It would almost seem that Easter eggs adopted their own colorful tradition from the colorful variations of the tulips. The theory might hold true if it weren’t for some of the color combinations I created by dipping the eggs in various pools of brilliant liquid.

In my picture albums I find some of the grandchildren standing near the tulips. I suppose the tulips subconsciously made a great photographic background for I never remember anyone requesting somebody stand in front of the tulips. But nonetheless they are documented in my picture collection.

Mom and Dad plan a trip to Holland to see the tulips growing in their native environment. I have seen pictures of the beautiful flower groves lying beneath the lazy turning windmills. They will have a wonderful trip seeing the annual tradition revive itself again in Nature’s cycle. Somehow I don’t believe the experience could replace the memory of Grandmother’s tulips.

Spring passed and the tulips became dormant again waiting for another year. The flowers of summer then reigned supreme. The spot where Grandmother’s tulips grew became the lawn mower’s dominion until another years passed. The smell of fresh cut grass, hydrangeas, and honeysuckle replaced the sweet smell of the tulip. But another consecutive year of the tulip has made an indelible impression in my memories of home.