The flowers of late winter and early spring occupy places in our hearts well out of proportion to their size. ~Gertrude S. Wister
I was so happy to see this on my walk, especially since it was spitting snow showers. In-between bouts of sunshine, we’ve had storm squalls suddenly race across the lake. Sitting with friends at the dining room table Saturday night, we said, “what’s that noise!” and when we opened the French doors to the lake, the wind slammed them against the wall, and scattered cushions all over the house, before we could get them closed once again. We still have fairy lights on the Fir tree, which grew up between the cracks of the terrace stones, and it wiggled and giggled to and fro in the fierce winds.
In spite of the cold, it’s time to take down the lighted evergreen garland which has decorated the fireplace mantle since Christmas. I always struggle with what to do this time of year–maybe pussy willows, which I can’t seem to find, or forcing branches, which somehow don’t mature for me. Often, I just prop up a watercolor of the Irish coast, and an engraving, entitled “Red Knickers”, of an old woman tending her garden in front of an English cottage. Maybe a white vase filled with daffodils or tulips, or pot of shamrocks. Last year, I’d found an abandoned bird’s nest on the ground, and I put that up there. Just little totems and talismans of springtime hope as we wait.