LIFE'S COMPLEXITIES MELT WITH RITUALS OF SPRING

The most popular reply by Missourians, perhaps the entire Midwest population, when asked, "What do you like most about the area?" is, "The seasons." Count me in. Perhaps it is because I have never known another geographical region for any length of time that I think it would be stifling to live where the weather, flora and fauna changed only infinitesimally the year 'round.

When the dazzling spring days come we often say, "Oh, I wish it would be like this all the time." It's a false statement born of emergence from winter's cold trap.

The smoky haze over autumn corn fields, winter woods filling up with snow, summer's perfume of clover and the verdant renewal of spring keeps one immune to monotony, a dulling condition for the senses.

So, now we come to spring and I have many rituals to fulfill. First I must go see if the poke is poking through the ground. For many years a small patch of it has been growing at the edge of the hedgerow. The pale green shoots shoot through the ground somewhat like asparagus, straight up with no frillery of spreading leaves. These early leaves are perpendicular and close packed as if hiding some treasure inside. This is the only time the pokeweed is edible. Boiled with mustard, spinach or turnip greens, it gives the dish a distinctive flavor. Later in the season the leaves are considered poisonous. I never garner all the shoots, wishing some to grow to maturity and produce the cluster of purple berries. Early in my time, Lou and I made ink of the pokeberry juice and, when barefooted, painted magenta shoes on our feet and "laced" them up, ballet style, to our knees and "tied" a purple bow.

The wren houses, cleaned out last autumn, must be hung in their usual places. I have found that wrens to not "cotton" to having their familiar houses changed to new locations. It confuses them and delays their nesting. I'm assuming it is the same wrens or their offspring that come back "home" every year. I'd be glad to band one to see if this is true, but have you ever tried to catch a wren?

Opening the doors and hoisting the purple martin house is not done on a regular spring ritual date. The time for that depends on the arrival of several martins and the availability of Bill, my neighbor, to help raise the house. Done too soon, this gives the ever-present sparrows an advantage for squatters rights.

Pinoaks and saw-toothed oaks hold their dead leaves all winter and thus the leaves escape the autumn rake-up. The lilac, bridal wreath, bush honeysuckle, forsythia and mock orange bushes are like magnets, drawing unto themselves these dead leaves which finally depart the tree at the urging of new buds coming on behind. These shrubbery-caught leaves have to be picked out by hand from the center of the bush. It is a tedious job, but alleviated by the warming sunshine on my shoulders, the buzz of bees, especially in the fragrant bush honeysuckle, the graceful red loops of cardinals marking out their territories, the velvet cooing of the doves, such cooing always seeming to end with a question mark.

The phlox must be divided and re-planted. Although once of varying colors pink, white, purple, all have reverted to the familiar lavender or magenta, depending upon how much sunshine they get. I keep the phlox not only for its hardiness and sweet perfume, but for butterfly attraction. I've always known this facet of phlox, but was pleased to see it mentioned in a recently published article about gardening for butterflies. Doesn't that sound delightful, airy and colorful? We've long made plantings for birds and some people, vegetable gardeners especially, feel they plant for rabbits, but gardening for butterflies it's lilting, fairy like, sweet visual tremolos of gardening.

A whole morning is spent for perennial inspection, not that I have that many, but I move slowly and linger lovingly at the resurrection of my old flower friends and remember those who gave me the first starts.

On such a spring ritual inspection I also look for old Mr. Toad, or his offspring, but I guess it is a little too cold yet for him as well as Stripe, the garden snake. I did find old Terrestrial Turtle. He was just slowly rounding a house corner when I stooped down to pick up yet some more leaves. I gave him a pat on his roof and wished him well for the summer. "Better stay out of tall grass or the lawnmower'll get you," I warned. He closed his house tightly. "I guess you know, T.T., that the complexities of life straighten out as you roam around the yard, feeling at one with all nature."

He stuck his head out again inquiringly, as if to say, "What was that you said?"

REJOICE!