Raisins

I put off writing every morning and then it is 4 days later...whoop!

Saw the first pics of Kate's baby bump. Is this the Queen's first great-grandchild? Anyone know?

I have been surrounded by death and the ceremonies that can accompany it for the past two weeks, purely by circumstance. In general, I don't 'do well' at funerals...they trigger some horrible memories, and I have made a complete ass of myself at some before; acting solely from stress. Dissociating at someone's sister's funeral is an example of how to be unfriended in the real world, and quickly. Even if you are hysterical, it's not even remotely welcome.

Even at my own mother's funeral, I made some inappropriate comments, to lighten the intense stress I was under; thank gods my parents are both gone, and I don't have to do that anymore. Still, for one reason or another, I am stuck going to funerals, mainly because others want me to go. You've been there, I am sure.

But casting all gloom aside, I can honestly say that I believe those who have gone, are at peace. Indeed, I think they are on a very marvelous journey...

The daffodils start to come up, although we are still getting wintery weather. But, as I have stated before; spring firmly starts for me in February. As March approaches, I can lay down the limp flag that February is spring, and pick up the vigorous flag of March is REALLY spring.

It's my brother's birth month and as long as I remember, Mom started decorating for spring on March 1. To my Mother, spring was all about birth (my brother in March and me in April) and rebirth, as defined by the Resurrection.

My memories of Spring will always be strongly influenced by my Mother's view of the events above and her thriftiness about it all. She had to pack 3 holidays into one, all of which required presents or candy or both; and she had to do it on a minister's salary.

We always got a new outfit in Spring. This is a tradition in some cultures. I don't know where she picked this up, but we got the benefit of it. A new pink or yellow dress, hat, white gloves, and shiny Mary Jane's for me, and a new suit with short pants for my brother. His outfit always came with a bow tie, like Mr. Rogers. I still remember the feel of those white gloves, at the end of the time when women wore gloves everyday, and everywhere.

Then the artificial grass, a thing of wonder, in the Easter basket(s). And it was a less-chocolatey basket than is found today. It always looked too good to eat, and pastel jelly beans were always scattered in the grass.  And boiled Easter eggs that my Father ended up eating, as we just admired them. And tiny boxes of raisins, and orange slices, and small bags of peanuts, cooked in the shell. And there was always something extra, in the basket...new pencils, or a brightly colored ruler or notebook. Or a new cup, to drink milk and kool aid out of. Something that wasn't consumed but lived on, after the holidays.

She did this for most of her life...though the new outfits disappeared as her life got harder, and we got older. The last basket she gave me had a pottery Easter egg in it, lavender colored with a bright, painted flower on it. In our arrogance, my brother and I told her we thought getting Easter baskets, at our age, was so childish.

What fools we were.

I am thankful that the story doesn't end there. She started making Easter baskets for her only grandchild, toward the end of her life. And while I did the manual labor, standing in line and shopping, she always 'arranged' the basket, so that it would have maximum, visual impact on said grandchild. She knew how to please.

So I stand in the local market and sniff their potted hyacinths, paperwhites, and daffodils, until they come up in my neck of the woods. I look for the tulips, and the bulbs on the iris. I search for the shoots of the new, green grass, and let March's winds bring dreams of my Mother. Because it is Spring; the time of the Mother everywhere...