traditions

I don't know where I got it, it must be buried somewhere in my English/Irish heritage - but I'm a wee bit tradition oriented; at least so it seems. Not the kinds of traditions that you find on a calendar, not the obvious ones. Just the little ones; lots and lots of little ones. Little ones all my own.

So on a certain Spring day, when the air smells of warm earth, and green is back in fashion, and the frogs remember their Spring chorus - (day and night, non-stop singing, from their little puddle in the woods. So sweetly pleasant in it's monotony) - Huck and I go violet hunting.

The very same day that the little pink and white beauties shown above appear in the side yard. They are our little indications. Something special is happening. We always make a point of stopping, and admiring them first.

Huck is getting more and more contemplative in his old age.

(Any of you able to identify these little flowers for me? They're yet nameless to us.)

Next, we take the path that goes by our happy little frog pond. It's just a little bit eery to hear them as their shrill little voices do scales in minor keys. They won't sing if they can see us. When Joe and I were small, we used to try to sneak up on them, thinking perhaps we'd catch a glimpse of our mysterious music makers. We gave up on that thought long ago. These frogs are not to be fooled. Mysterious they must always remain. And they're still singing the same songs.

Next stop is a visit to the old hollow tree on the frog pond shore.

Spot anything peculiar?

What about now?

This very dear, very confused mother goose and her faithful husband come to visit us year after year. And each year persist in choosing this tree. They're odd. They're special. And they're very committed. It took several years of attempts to have the success of raising one little gosling in their tree house. Last year they must have finally worked out the last kinks. (ie: how to keep those pesky eggs from --- falling out.) Last summer, we were proud to see them and their seven little balls of fluffy cuteness. And they're back again. They have their traditions too I guess.

(Thank Nikon for a nice powerful zoom. You wouldn't want to get too close to this momma.)

And at last...

Spring's first violet.

At least according to Huck and I.

"Forgiveness is the fragrance of the violet left on the heel that has crushed it."

-Mark Twain