JOY ALONG THE WAY: SUMMERTIME IN QUEEN ANNE'S LANE

I haven't heard a katydid yet, but ere this column gets in print, I expect to. All the summertime things come together after the Fourth of July. That date is a watershed. Cicadas, butterflies, ripe tomatoes from the garden, blueberry pie, quail calls, new birds fully feathered, blistery sidewalks are some of the adornments of the high noon month of the year.

Hal Borland, who wrote about wind and weather, time and the seasons, said, "July is the get-up-and-go month so I get up and go. Not to the far reaches of our shores and beyond but to my favorite little country roads, creeks, fields and rivers.

My country roads have lost their names and have been numbered for the ease of service vehicles that need to find them easily, but in my mind they remain the names I have given them,

Not far from the noisy highway, busy buildings and forests of signboards is Queen Anne's Lane, Papaw Road, Daisy Drive. These westward ways can all be traversed in less than an hour with just straight, slow driving. But if you wish to pull aside and stop to smell the fragrance of the bordering sweet clover, a patch of wild bergamot or some recently cut hay, it takes a little longer.

Queen Anne's Lane is my favorite. From much travel there, I know just where to expect a patch of yarrow, a clump of black-eyed Susans, a dense growth of fence-hung honeysuckle, and of course, the Queen Anne's Lace. I know the order of the names on the mailboxes.

Sometimes there is a new name on an old mailbox and I know something has happened. Everything else looks the same, the nearby house, trees, shrubs, outbuildings, but there's that new name. Such a little thing, but maybe denoting something big. Maybe there has been sickness and death, reversal of finances, marriages and moving, greater opportunities sounding a siren call, but all the passerby notices is a change of name on a mailbox. Life moves on.

If you pull aside at a wide place in the road and sit still, listening, you soon will note the difference in the sounds from those of the city. There is a clearer identification. Birds that like the country better than town will give you a sample of their songs. A phoebe with its little insistent call, may signal others to come and see what has stopped here beside the road. Song sparrows alight on slender stalks and sing of their delight with the fields of America. From a nearby woods will come the pure, melodious notes of the wood thrush. The clarion call of a rooster may punctuate a silent spot.

I smile and picture in my mind some self-assured Rhode Island Red strutting around amongst his harem as if to call attention to the iridescent colors of his gracefully curling tail feathers and redness of comb.

A small pond decorates Queen Anne's Lane. There is always water in this pond and in summertime some cows and calves are always near it, or in it. Sometimes if I stop and walk up to the fence a young heifer or two will come to have a closer look at me. I, once again, admire the way a cow's hair parts right up the middle of its face, stays in place, never needs coloring, never turns gray, never needs cutting, curling or spraying. Sometimes on a bad hair day I wish I had cow face hair on my head. Holstein? Jersey? Angus? Yes, Angus.

At the end of Queen Anne's Lane, I turn left at Papaw corner and before me is a whole new adventure of woods, fields and creeks. Maybe there will be a woodchuck in the middle of the road, a covey of quail, or, mercy, a wolf! They've been heard.

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.