In an effort to avoid the madness on the interstate, I've taken to crossing town through a very picturesque neighborhood. With the exception of a couple of school zones, the drive is smoother, and certainly easier on the eyes than brake lights standing still on I-20. This morning on my drive to work, I had the windows rolled down a tiny bit.
So, here I was enjoying the drive, the little breeze coming through the window, and the beautiful flowers coming into bloom along the route. I was transported to my childhood with another one of those sensory memories. The sweet smell of honeysuckles was all around me this morning.
It's funny that I hadn't been conscious of the tiny gold and white flowers until their powerful scent hit me. Then, of course, I saw them everywhere. I don't know if they are a weed, or not, but they grow with almost the same abandon as kudzu. Except, nobody likes kudzu.
Honeysuckles, on the other hand, herald spring. I've absentmindedly noticed the kids pulling apart the stems and sucking on the nectar. After school they congregate in bunches around the honeysuckle bushes, systematically picking the blooms off the vines. Sometimes Jonathan will snatch a few and take them into the car when I pick him up.
It's a funny ritual. Most people who haven't grown up in the south would reject the idea of eating a flower, but I remember doing it as a child, and then introducing the spring ceremony to my own children, when the fence along the backyard fills up with the sweet blooms.
The girls, too, have shared the honeysuckle ritual with classmates and most recently, with a favorite teacher at his house. If it's a rite of spring to taste the nectar from this flowering delicacy, then it must be an initiation rite to teach new people the wonderful secret found in the stems of this innocuous little plant. Too soon they'll wither and die, but for a spell they sweeten our days before the dog days of summer press upon us.
No comments:
Post a Comment