Morrisons Cove Herald - Putting cows on the front page since 1885.

Old Order Mennonite Memoirs

 

Having been forbidden from the attraction of the fish pool in their front yard, my grandson Logan, age 6, folded his arms over the top of the small woven fence around it and began to imitate a toad's springtime song. Instantly one of the toads sitting on the surrounding rocks, responded. We saw the homely songster inflate his throat to amplify his beautiful song.

Being a toad, he was allowed to be in the cool water where my grandchildren also wished to be. Unaccustomed to 80-degree weather, they begged for release from shoes and socks and were happy for a pail of water to cool their soft, winter feet. The month of May brought summer suddenly.

We trimmed flowerbeds in the morning sunshine and Dana, age 10, carted away our weeds. He also filled and brought loads of mulch to us where we needed them.

In the afternoon, after sharing a delicious lunch in their cool kitchen we went back outside to resume our gardening. When Granddaughter Bella, age 6 months, came on the scene she was still wearing tights on her chubby legs, but that usual winter garb was soon shed in the afternoon heat. We even sought refuge in the shade of the pear tree while its blossoms, like snowy angel wings fluttered around us into the green, lush grass.

The heat, besides helping farmers finish up corn planting, made the grass grow. Unless we kept on clipping faithfully, lawns got ahead of us and tried to stall our mowers.

The warmth, besides coaxing me to plant my beans, coaxed my gardens into green summer heights. As I worked to provide for sugar pea's climbing inclination, I stopped short, struck by the fact that the captivating beauty surrounding me was short-lived. I knew the next time I came to my garden, it would be different. So I looked around, trying to soak up the God-given beauty while it was mine.

The heat eventually gave way to rain, in fact, some areas had high winds and hail. In the south the sky looked dark on Friday evening, with impending danger, green and purple and black, but the violent weather missed us. The rains abated on Saturday, enabling me to finish mowing and clean the maple tree flowers off the patio. In the evening I took the row covers off my cabbage plants, assuming that protection from winter's cold was no longer needed.

The rains resumed on Sunday. At Piney Creek church, we were safely inside, away from the rain that watered a green world. Here at home, a huge puddle formed on my patio, deterring my guests from my kitchen door. Stepping first into the living room, they found their way to my kitchen table when the potatoes were mashed and the gravy made. The roast was ready in the oven and the asparagus and corn didn't take long to make. I made the bread and red raspberry jelly one day before. The salad, which included lettuce, kale, spinach and radishes from my garden, was complimented with cheese, pretzels and red beet eggs. Chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream and raspberry tapioca completed our meal.

My brother and his wife brought my dad after worshiping at Martinsburg church. Also coming from there was my nephew and his wife of a year. Baby Bella, who came with her parents, was the only little one around our table. Since the weather was damp and unable to nudge into the 60s, she wore her tights again.

My mom was missing. No matter that this is the sixth Mother's Day without her, "How often some passing word will tend In visions to recall My truest, dearest, fondest friend – That earliest friend of all Who tended on my childish years, Those years that pass as hours, When all earth's dewy, trembling tears Lie hidden within her flowers." Although I don't know who penned these lines, it was Sharon Doubiago who wrote, "My mother is a poem I'll never be able to write, though everything I write is a poem to my mother."

 

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