Friday, April 9, 2010

On Forsythia


Maybe we used to go to my grandmother's place for Easter - I don't remember. But I do remember rolling up, usually about half carsick, to her house in spring and loving the bright yellow forsythia in her yard - the yellow buds electric against the tiny white house.

I know we made the drive to Gretna, Virginia for Thanksgiving every year - and it always seemed so bleak to me in Fall - the brown, wet leaves and winding roads - the smell of my parents' gas station coffee (pre-boutique coffee days -quelle horreur!). I spent a lot of time throwing up in the cattails on the side of the road because I was always trying to read books in the back seat, even though I knew I couldn't without getting sick. Stubborn, always.

Spring was a different scene - I'd sit for what seemed like hours - and was probably five minutes - looking for arrowheads in Grandma's gravel driveway. (Yeah. I'm going to use that one on Frasier, too. Here honey - find some "artifacts" while Mommy has another glass of wine.)

Although I've been coming to our Vermont house for many years, now that I'm living here, I pay more attention to the landscape - where the bulbs are coming up, what blooms early. I was delighted to see the huge forsythia bush in our side yard. It's a big burst of happiness on a wet gray day.

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