Marsh Marigolds

My mother, an outdoors-woman at heart, knew her spring wildflowers well.  When I was a very young child, she taught me to recognize spring beauties, trillium, mayapples, bloodroot, jack-in-the-pulpit, violets, columbine, buttercups, and yellow trout lilies – or at least those are some of the ones I remember.

Now I live in a different ecosystem.  Wooded swamps fringe marshlands where cattails rule the roost.  At this time of year, new growth has not yet appeared to replace dry bulrushes – and yet the floors of the neighboring forested swamps are peppered with beautiful, brash yellow: marsh marigolds. 

These profuse blossoms are delicate and perfect, providing the first significant splash of color as the world wakes up.  Like the spring wildflower friends of my youth, their dynamic phases – dormancy, full bloom, and the stages in-between – are all mysterious, spectacular evidences of ongoing life.

Complete Fleet

Yesterday it was the ski boat’s turn to launch at the public landing. At just the right moment, the sleek white hull inscribed with "Moomba" slipped off the trailer behind the truck and gracefully floated out onto the water, swan-like. Situated behind the wheel, I pulled the drawstring on my hood tight as protection against the chill and turned the key in the ignition.

I’m a better boat passenger than driver.  But I do love the engine’s low rumble, the hull’s smooth knife-like slice, and the delicious freedom of zooming across open water. This boat has accumulated many memories, and they collectively washed over me: a compelling story of so many shared good things.

I hugged the east shore, the only person in the only vessel on the lake.  All those acres of water were mine. At our pier, the boat joined our other oldie-but-goodie boats to complete the fleet.

Now we just need the water to warm up about twenty degrees, the sun to stay out, and family and friends to show up.  Okay summer, we’re ready!

Newfangled Coffeecake

This is not sour cream coffeecake, although it looks very similar. 

Rather, it is a pretender with big elbows that has muscled its way in and taken over the coffee hour at our house.

I call it Newfangled Coffeecake.  The dough is made with almond and coconut flours, and sweetened with honey.  Ground pecans, cinnamon, honey and coconut oil make up the streusel.  

There’s no point in comparing this cake-gone-nuts with my good old sour cream coffeecake of the past, a dairy-sugar-white flour-trans-fat bomb that tasted heavenly.  No, because I taught my kids “there’s no comparison without injury,” and I don’t want any trauma.  Rather, Newfangled Coffeecake is its own thing.  And we love it.

First One

This afternoon I’m in the kitchen doing kitchen-y things, as usual, when I hear the oddest noise.  It resembles a muffled voice, like a gagged person is desperately trying to talk.

“Hwoh uh!”  (unintelligible sound)

I turn and look out the picture window, saucepan in hand.  A man wearing a beat-up Tilly hat and oversized frog-eye sunglasses is plastered against the glass (as if smashed into it), holding a fish in one hand and fishing pole in the other.  It’s my husband.  His tongue is hanging out for effect. He appears either dazed or crazed.  Or both.

It’s all a show.  We’ve been married almost 44 years, so I get it.  He’s begging me to join him in the moment. I head to the door, camera in hand.

“Nice fish!” I say as I walk outside and aim the camera.

“First bass of the year!” he crows. 

Realistically, it is a small fish compared to many others he’s caught.  But it is the first one of the season, which makes it special.

I coach him, photographer-style.  “Move over here so the light is better.”

The fish wriggles violently, tosses the plastic lure, and flops on the deck.  I dodge the lure as it flips my way – a crawdad-looking thing with murderous-looking hooks – while the fisherman pinches the fish’s lip and holds him aloft.

Snap – the shutter captures the moment.

As I get older I realize how these kinds of small moments define us as a couple. They create a unique history while teaching the fine art of appreciation – for each other, the gift of life, and the varied surprises, challenges, and victories we experience together. 

Myrtle Memories

When I was a little girl, Mother and I “borrowed” myrtle and transplanted it to grow on the big hill between our cottage and the lake.  

During the summer months, we went to town to buy groceries and visit the Laundromat once a week.  We usually took an empty shoebox and hand shovel with us and drove home the long way, via the east shore, with the intent of stopping for myrtle.  A narrow, one-car-only dirt lane cut through a forest at the end of East Shore Drive, surrounded by wild myrtle.  That’s where we got our plants.

I wondered if anyone cared.  Mother seemed to think not, that this was unused land and the plants were free for the taking.  Over many years our transplants spread until the hill was mostly covered with a thick blanket of dark green. 

Every spring I looked forward to our first lake visit after the long winter, and sometimes the timing was just right: our myrtle was blooming.  Delicate lavender flowers, like happy little faces, seemed exquisite to me as a child.  A cause for joy.

Now…fast forward many, many years.  When we purchased this house beside another lake fifteen years ago, a small area of myrtle had been overgrown by a tangle of neglected plants near the mailbox.  I cleared the mess and transplanted little clumps of myrtle closer to the house, and now a thriving patch winds its way on either side of the door to greet everyone who enters.

Today my myrtle is blooming, calling me back to precious myrtle memories.