First crocuses of the spring

It's hardly past the first week of February, but this year in the foothills on the edge of the Willamette Valley the first colors of the year are peaking through the underbrush. They're yellow, these first bloomers, unlike the wild purple ones on the north side of the hills of the western North Dakota prairies.

There's a fondness for crocus in my being. Maybe this came from grandma Sax, Marie, who seemed to have some on her table soon as the first ones appeared. Maybe this came from Mom who would drive me to the more prolific hill almost a mile from the house before I was grown enough to either walk that distance or drive a vehicle. We'd pick them when we went to get the cows in for milking, which, when I was in grade school, was as soon as we got off the school bus in the afternoon.

Conveniently the crocus would bloom around the first of May so they were available to put in the May basket that I'd put on the doorstep and ring the doorbell for Mom. I have no idea from where the tradition came, but after I rang the bell I'd run away and Mom would come out chasing me, catch me and give me a kiss. Well, at least that happened once and stuck in my mind as annual forever. Maybe this is the memory or emotion in the back of my mind that sparks the romantic part of me when the crocuses show color in the spring.