Trillium Memories

Funny you should be mentioning trilliums.  I just dug some up.

45 years ago or more (I'm 50) mom took us to the swamps at the first winter thaw to dig 
skunk cabbage blossoms.  She decried the neighbor's using their woods for grazing since 
theirs grew Indian Pinks and Sweet William.  Ours had been grazed for so long Spring 
Beauties were all it could give. (Now that it isn't grazed at all I should probably go 
look while it's yet spring.)

She taught us the difference between false and regular Solomon's Seal, let us play with 
Bloodroot and thrilled when she came across a Trillium or Dog-toothed Violet.  All the 
elementary school teachers wanted us in their classes because of her "nature" show and 
tells.  Mom could be counted on to bring in masses of Bittersweet and the new baby 
anything.  Dad helped when the new baby was a calf.

My mom's 77th birthday is Thursday.  Her kidneys have not worked for nearly 9 years - 
she chooses life.  Dialysis is a life wrenching/giving paradox.  Last week she could 
dress herself and walk about the house.  This week dad is carrying (he's still the 
strongest man I know) her to dialysis.  I pray her current pain is a healing crisis. 
 Since I wasn't sure what the snow and 25 degree temps would do, I dug some of the 
marroon Trilliams and Duchman's Britches and green-looking Trilliams for her.  Tried to 
get some yellow dog-toothed violets but they were too deep for the hand scoop I had with
me.  I hope the pot I filled lasts 'till Thursday.  The grandson who lives with/off of 
them is studying botany and may even plant them for her.

When grama (dad's mom who lived with us) did the spring ladies tea at the church, mom 
picked the violets and candied them.  Every plastic strainer in the sandbox tire was 
pulled into use since the stems anchored well through the coarseness of the plastic grid
which just fit the tiny blossoms.  Mom thrilled to fried dandelion blossoms and we knew 
she was strange.  She had a penchant for making stuff she called wine out of berries or 
dandelions.  She'd add sugar to the bottles in the cellar and every now and then there'd
be a mess behind the kitchen door where one of them would blow their cork and part of 
the contents.  Tasted terrible and no one ever drank any of it except for the occasional
private Eucharist she'd serve to us.  We preferred wild grape juice.

Skunk Cabbage blossoms were her thing.  The local newspapers would write her up nearly 
every year with photos and comments about this elusive blossom.  I remember her 
collecting tubs from thrift stores to use to display them in as part of centerpieces for
a fancy luncheon.  They weren't at all fancy but mom's enthusiasm made people think they
were.

She must have read and researched but I don't remember seeing her do it.  She did read 
adventure missionary stories to us out loud and took apart bicycles and told us how to 
baptize the babies (kitties, puppies, chickies, duckies, raccoons, goats, you name it) 
in the rainbarrel. She cooked bugs, grashoppers I think, for us to try like folks in 
exotic places and once bought candied bugs for us to try. The Christmas dad brought home
a hitchiker (Bud something-foreign-sounding) the bathroom was not available because mom 
and grama were draining the pig they'd decided to roast for the big dinner.  It was sub 
zero outside and they were afraid it would freeze before draining if they did it 
outside.  To this day mom bemoans the fact that the ears shrank and credits it to the 
pig being really too big to fit well in the oven.

She made lye soap and tried to get us to use it...but it stank.  She taught us great 
powers of observation and modeled an active curiosity about everything God made that has
served us well.  We often moved animals out of the bathtub in order to get into it.  One
of her last bathroom pets before having to leave the farm was a bantam hen whose feet 
had frozen off but still had her legs down to her knees.   Reminds me of the heritage 
many of you are even now giving your children.

It feels so odd to be the age I think of my parents as being.  Prayerfully I'll be able 
to think that at 70 as well.

Wistfully, warmly,

SaraLou