The Little House is about two weeks behind spring in New York. The crabapples and cherry blossoms are starting to unfurl, their blossoms heavy with rain. The grass has never been greener - lush and full and in desperate need of a haircut. No one bothered.
My nieces Pinwheel and Noodle were with us - scampering along the beach, chasing balls caught by the wind, and sticking their toes into the gray, roiling ocean.
My mother has always dreamed of pink climbing roses, so we built a rose arbor and planted two climbers at its base. Happy Mother's Day, mom. Your love of growing things is infectious.
We told a story in the round, each of us taking part - an epic tale of the Clam Prince of Abyssinia. We killed him off at the end by making him into chowder. (It was time for bed.)
Then home with an armful of lilacs, crabapples, and cherry blossoms. I can smell them now. I wish you could too.