A basket of pansies

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA A new outfit was a treat almost every spring on time for Easter when I was growing up. It was probably driven by childhood growth spurts more than anything else. Usually the only other time new clothes were in order was the beginning of the school year and maybe, maybe Christmas time.

Weather was a little more predictable then and we wore “spring” coats, usually on the dressy side and considerably lighter weight than our winter coats or jackets. I don’t ever remember snow for Easter. It was often a little cold, and I do remember my ears being red from walking to St. Benedict’s for Mass with my maternal Grandmother one year – I wouldn’t have been dressed properly without a little pill box hat and thin veil down my face, so my ears were almost frozen. Unlike Easter Sundays in the last decade when we’ve gotten everything from a blizzard to a couple of feet of snow.

In the late 1980s when we had moved from California to Illinois, I was really surprised to step outside on Easter Sunday morning into eighty-five humid degrees when the winter was suddenly and dramatically finished.

This week in the Cleveland area there may be rain everyday, and no temps under freezing, so I took the basket of beautiful, healthy looking pansies given to me by my cousin Ray’s sister-in-law, who runs a greenhouse in or near Litchfield, Ohio and separated them into two halves and planted each in one of the two large green pots I’ve kept on my front porch for many years.

The green haze that I watch for as a sign of transformation from winter to spring has not yet arrived.

Rain Walk

The rain came down at a slight angle

looking like long lines from the sky

with very little space between them.

In walking gear and rain shoes,

we carried large umbrellas as we

trudged along the foot path at Hinckley Lake.

 Except for the pummeling of the rain, the gurgling of the

little winding creeks, the occasional honking of geese,

the air was quiet.

We drank in the delicate pre-spring hues, inhaled the

forest scent, shook the excess water from our umbrellas,

rested under the fronds of a great feathery pine,

fancied ourselves characters in a Hiroshige print.


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