—- by Alyce Faye Bragg
The spring peepers have been heard, piping their shrill melody to spring, and the tiny little crocus has raised its lavender-striped head aloft in the flower bed. The air is scented with the smoky smell of burning weeds as lawns are being raked and the debris burned. Spring peepers and burning gardens are the epitome of spring to me, as Daddy raked the garden and burned the weeds before the planting season.
Spring is very near, but the sarvis (serviceberry) has not bloomed. According to mountain lore, and Uncle Clarence Brown, our weather prophet of yesteryear, spring won’t come until it snows on the sarvis bloom. So we can expect another snowfall, although it’s hard to envision snow on this warm, sunny day.
We have so much to look forward to this time of year. It’s almost time for the little morel mushrooms to stick their heads up through last year’s brown, dry leaves, just waiting for the hopeful hunter to spy them. They are probably the most sought-after wild mushroom in our area, with a delicate, unmatched flavor. They are also the easiest to identify. Morel hunters are a secretive lot, hiding their patches from year to year, almost like yesterday’s moonshiners.
Spring is the most longed for season of the year. The great-grandchildren are eagerly looking forward to warm weather and the barefoot season. When we were children, and it seemed that winter would never end, Daddy would tell us of the coming of spring. His voice would almost cast a spell upon us as he droned, “Spring will come, and the hot sun will dry up the mud and warm the ground. The birds will sing, the flowers will bloom, and the tomatoes will get ripe. The leaves will come out on the trees, the grass will get green–then you can take off your shoes and go barefooted.”
I’d close my eyes and could feel the soft, velvety grass tickling my toes. Every family had its own guidelines to mark the barefoot season. I remember Hettie Brown made her children wait until the first of May, but we simply waited until Mom announced that it was warm enough to take off our shoes. Most times we had already sneaked and done so!)
When Mom was a little girl down on Big Laurel Creek, her mother made the children wait until all the ice had melted off the Big Rocks across the creek. Sometimes the icicles held on after the weather was warm, so armed with rocks of their own, the children “helped” the ice fall. A friend of mine (Charlotte Ray) once told me that they had to wait until they saw the first butterfly. I saw one flitting through the yard a day or so ago–I wonder if she is barefoot this morning,
Spring–it is on its way–dreamy days of sweet lassitude; letting the warm sun drain away the winter weariness. I read one time that spring fever is an actual malady–a hangover from winter. I always thought it was a case of the “lazies” but now I have an excuse. At one time, the country cure for such a condition was a whopping dose of sulphur and molasses. Thank goodness, we were spared that. But if we sneezed or looked cross-eyed, we were subjected to a dose of castor oil, the nastiest stuff that was ever invented. No matter what ailed us, I am sure that the cure was worse than the malady. The last dose I took, Daddy sat on me and poured it down my throat. Still it came up.
Spring brought a regular “de-worming” in some families, just as a precaution. A friend of mine recalls those dreaded pink pills (PW) that they had to take each spring. Her mother would dole out three apiece, and she hated them. She took hers and hid them in the crevice of a big sycamore tree. She states that she still might have worms, but the old tree is graveyard dead. She checked. We take our spring tonic in the form of sassafras tea. It is delicious.
Spring always brings to me a longing to go camping once again on William’s River. Although I am no longer able to go, my mind wanders again to that flowing trout stream that was a big part of our childhood. Opening day of trout season found us packed and ready to go, snow or sunshine. I received a letter from Louise Mondy of Cross Lanes, concerning White Oak Run.
White Oak Run was our favorite place to camp when I was a young’en. There was a level field beside the tributary that ran down to the river, and it was a perfect place to camp. Daddy pitched the big tent in that field, and we had access to pure, cold water from White Oak Run. I remember taking a pan of potatoes, sliced to fry, down to the Run to wash them. Unfortunately, I spilled them, and then scooped them back in the pan. I tried to wash the sand out of them, but Daddy remarked at supper, “These potatoes taste kind of gritty!”
Mrs. Mondy told me that her late father-in-law, Jerome Mondy, and his son, Mike Mondy (her late husband) had built a cinder block camp there in the late 1950’s. She said that it doesn’t have electricity, but it does have running water from a small stream that runs off the hill behind the camp. There is no better water than William’s River water.
Oh, the sweet memories that place holds! The Lord blessed our family with love for one another, and with good times of family togetherness that still binds us together. He created the things of nature for our pleasure, and leadeth us in paths of righteousness.
SONG
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Stay, stay at home, my heart and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,
For those that wander they know not where
Are full of trouble and full of care;
To stay at home is best.
Weary and homesick and distressed,
They wander east, they wander west,
And are baffled and beaten and blown about
By the winds of the wilderness of doubt;
To stay at home is best.
Then stay at home, my heart and rest;
The bird is safest in its nest,
Over all that flutter their wings and fly
A hawk is hovering in the sky;
To stay at home is best.
