Sunday afternoons in the summer were slow, quiet, lazy times. Once we’d returned from Calvin Church, and finished the meal of homemade soup and bread, our time was our own.
Sunday was a day of rest, and there weren’t the usual farm-tractors and hay-wagons rumbling up and down the Third Line, or along the side-road. These were the best kind of days to pick a bouquet of wild-flowers for Mother.
Our ditches held a rainbow of colours; and even as I rounded the curve, down the lane-way, I saw splashes of pink, yellow, and purple, framing the long, dusty, side-road.
Although the ones along the ditch closest to the house were lovely, they never seemed to be as bright or as tall, as the ones I’d spot a little farther along the road, so off I’d go, toward the Fourth Line.
By the time I’d arrived at the little creek, there was an even bigger selection; maybe because the land around the creek was still moist, even late in the season. Many varieties of flowers made their home along this pretty stream, like the tall purple irises in the spring.
Standing at the creek, looking back toward the train tracks, the flowers near the old oak tree, at the edge of Perkins’ field, seemed even taller and brighter, so that would be my next stop. I’d continue along, and see splashes of orange and violet, each seeming brighter and more beautiful the farther I walked.
When I finally reached the railroad tracks, there were daisies, black-eyed Susans, and some tall slender cattails as well. It was always nice to include a few cattails in an arrangement, and so I’d pluck some of those out of the swamp along the road. The heat-bugs hummed in the summer haze, and the crickets sang their songs, all along the train tracks, serenading me as I gathered more wildflowers.
After one last look around, I was finally satisfied that I had the best selection possible. I was ready to head back home with my bouquet.
Once the old house was in sight, I ran the rest of the way, anxious to present Mother with the beautiful collection of colourful blooms.
Whenever I arrived back home, after gathering some colourful beauties, Mother always claimed that they were the loveliest flowers she’d ever seen, and placed them carefully in one of her tall containers, as though they were the finest flowers, flown in from some exotic lands far, far away.
They may have just been lowly weeds picked from the nearby ditches, and farmer’s fields, but once they were standing proudly in the ‘good’ vase, after Mother’s careful arranging, they really did look magnificent.