The First Crocus

My baby sister and I sat inside a ring of stones that had been placed around a dogwood tree in our yard, looking at some of the first crocuses of the year. This was the first house my parents bought, with a big yard that my mother was eager to landscape. My mom loved bulb flowers, crocuses, daffodils, tulips and anything else that looked colorful on the packages lining the garden center shelves. But crocus were her favorite. Tiny little explorers braving the cold and snow, sacrificing their petals young so that bigger, bolder flowers could follow.

To create flower beds, she went hunting for stones. I remember Sunday drives, before my sister was born, cruising around back country roads, my mother’s eyes searching the ditches and embankments beside the road while my father drove aimlessly farther and farther into the unsettled countryside. When my mom would spot a likely stone, my dad would pull over and dig and push and pull and hoist the stones into the trunk of the car. When the car was full or the light was low, we’d head back home. My father could have been a football player in another life. He had no trouble, at least none in my memory, hauling big old stones from the car to their destination point across the yard. With his massive shoulders and biceps, I’m pretty sure my dad could handle any lifting job he wanted to do.

These collected stones became rings around dogwood trees and barriers along foundation plantings and garden beds. I’m sure it never occurred to my mother, from cities and suburbs “up north,” that these piles of stones were creating perfect homes for the various snakes, including copperheads, that lived in our woods. My dad, from the swamps of eastern North Carolina, probably thought about snakes no more than he thought about gnats and mosquitos - prepare as best you can but they're just gonna be a part of your life. Fortunately, I was too little to know anything other than to carry a stick if you were walking in the woods. At any rate, there are no tragic snake stories from our yard, though plenty of neighbors' stories fill my childhood.

There were, however, many easter egg hunts. The thick bed of pine needles in all the flower beds made hiding them easy, and my dad had an endless supply of energy to “hide them again!” even though he protested for show. My mother’s job was to inspect each egg carefully for cracks at the end of the day, those to be tossed before any eating began. My mother also attempted to police the eating of candy, but I don’t think she tried all that hard. Or maybe we just didn’t listen.

Whether we had crocuses and daffodils to hide eggs among depended upon when Easter fell that year. My mother always loved spring, and rather than our non-religious family celebrating Easter, we should have made a family holiday out of The First Crocus. I always knew when the first bloom had opened, as my mother would get positively giddy and make sure everyone went out to look at it. If we’d had digital cameras back then, or if film and developing hadn’t been so expensive, I’m sure she would have dozens of photo albums by now filled with each year’s First Crocus. Instead we have albums of little girls, gradually getting larger each year, posed by spring flowers. The little girls eventually gave way to women, and then new little girls appeared. Little girls and crocuses peeking into the world, an endless tale.