Little Purple Daisies

Daffodils heralded the spring for Wordsworth.  Daffodils still speak springtime.  But for me, springtime is synonymous with little wild purple daisies.  When I was a child, the first thing I noticed as winter edged out was the appearance of little purple daisies. They covered every expanse of grass around the house.  Not in the yard itself, for that was kept hoed and brush-broomed clean, with only flowers Mother planted left growing and blooming.  And not in the barnyard, for that was kept clean by the mules' grazing and stomping.  And not in the chicken yard, for it was pecked clean.  But all around and in between, wherever there was grass, were the little purple daisies.  The well worn path to the cotton field, over the hill and across the gurgling branch (before Daddy built the pond) was lined with them.  The dirt road which ran in front of the house, leading northward to our grandparents' home (Tom and Ida Bivins's home) sported patches of purple along the fence row which marked its sandy edges.  The pasture east of the little white church (Mt. Gilead Methodist Church) where we had our Easter egg hunt, was dotted with purple, even before the colored eggs were hidden.

Each spring of my life I have looked for the little purple wild flowers which were always a source of joy to me.  When I lived in Utah, I could not find them.  There were some kinds of little wildflowers to be sure, but not the same as those I remembered, and none of them purple.

Springtime is here again (well, beginning).  Yesterday I walked outdoors, to the mailbox and around the yard.  Daffodils nodded their yellow faces here and there, in beds, where Mother once planted them.  A short line of jonquils winked bravely, still where I planted them in the spring of 1964 (talk about perserverance)! A hawthorne bush at the corner of the house pushed its red blossoms out from between its thorns. The pearl bushes budded white.  And on the ground lay a carpet of little wildflowers, little daisies.  Yes, they still bloom for me.  But they are different this year.  They are not purple.  They are white.  I have a snowfall of little white daisies, here, there, and everywhere.  My hair is white and so is theirs.