story by LAURA LINDBLOM
First , I fell in love with violets .
I called them wildflowers , but Dad called them weeds , and to his chagrin they grew in abundance in the yard of my childhood home . I can remember picking them handful by fragrant handful , stuffing them into tiny vases with pride and delight . Their sweet faces were enchanting , the sleepy-eyed , quiet little things , all shades of dark blue-purple to white , with the delicate striping at their throats and their whimsical heart-shaped leaves .
Then I learned their names . They weren ’ t just violets , but some were common blue violets , some were dog violets . It is one thing to know a flower by sight , to recognize it in a distant sort of a way . It is another thing to know its name . It is like the difference between an acquaintance and a companion . Thus began a lifelong friendship with the flowers . Field guides became a favorite and treasured part of my personal library . I learned many names . Each hike or rambling walk was a treasure hunt , every parting of the grasses a discovery . For each new flower I found , I learned a new name , like meeting a new friend .
And meet them I did , learning to see the uniqueness of the flowers , not just nature ’ s wild and wonderful bouquet .
As my friendship with them deepened and their names became familiar , wooded rambles no longer were blind treasure hunts , but reunions , each time I wandered into their domain and sought their company . My photographs of them were no longer just photographs , but portraits . Their familiar faces became as familiar as a friend ’ s face , their presence was eagerly anticipated , the blooming of different flowers marking milestones throughout the year . I learned their quirks and preferences , to know where each little blossoming beauty likes to be , what hollows they haunt , what hillsides they adorn , and when they adorn them . A well-traveled trail is always new , week to week transformed by the adorning flowers , and sometimes day to day .
Columbine blooms quickly in the early summer and is easily missed , tucked away in the cool , damp hollows and ravines , her salmon and yellow blossoms hanging like pendants from her slender stem . A lucky person might chance upon a blue columbine , rare in the Hills , or even a white morph . Lanceleaf bluebells grow on the hill trail above our house , drinking up the splashes of midsummer sunlight from between the spreading ponderosa pines . Finding the hiding place of the sego lily is a reward in itself , reclusive as she is , and rather shy , maiden-white with a heart of gold . Spiderwort , not overly finicky about where he grows , sometimes in the pines , sometimes on the prairie , boasts his clusters of brightest pink and vivid purple , the local varieties almost impossible to differentiate , as they cross-pollinate with ease . Longspur violets grow in the higher elevations west of us , while their sisters , the pale-lavender larkspur violet and dainty yellow Nuttall ’ s violet , inhabit the more arid country around my home , flourishing on the grass-covered slopes of the foothills . And then there is the magenta gem of the summer , shooting star , thriving in the shelter of trees and ferny slopes , lighting up like her namesake when the sun is just right . Beebalm , almost a weed but not quite , spreads a mist of color over entire hillsides in the later summer , fragrant and robust . Wild roses , sweet and feisty , grow in the sandiest , hardestpacked ruts of trails , forming rollicking banks of brambles when they are undisturbed , leaving behind crimson jewels at summer ’ s end which , when harvested , make the most wonderful honey-colored jelly .
So many names ! Names familiar and enchanting and delightful . Prairie chickweed . Purple virgin ’ s bower . Prairie smoke . Blue flag . Dame ’ s rocket . Wild buckwheat . Yellow ladyslipper . Pussytoes . Shell-leaf penstemon . Cutleaf anemone . Harebells and asters and fleabane .
How sweet it is , to be surrounded by familiar , beautiful faces . To peer into the underbrush , to part the tall grasses , to look beyond what many choose to see , to seek and find and learn . To ramble in the woods in the company of so many old friends .
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