I’ve suffered from a severe case of Writer’s Block for the last couple of days. There have been smaller contributing factors (winter, insomnia and sundry small slings and arrows) but I knew deep-down whence this virus came. The reason I couldn’t write lay snug on the shoulders of my inability to post pictures on my blog. Talk about counterintuitive!
I’m no Cartier-Bresson with the camera — I shrivel with shame when I see the luminous photography on slick food blogs. Hey, I’m a writer, and I should be able to make my words shape that perfect shot! But the last ten days when my ability to upload pictures disappeared has been a living heck, because I realized that I want to show you the funky little bits and pieces of my life. I mean, I don’t have the writing chops to describe a crocheted chocolate chip cookie!
(Tech note: My Happiness Engineer suggested I change from Firefox to Chrome. Mind you, my brilliant son-in-law John suggested the switch a week before WordPress did, but it was at 2:00 am and I must have messed up. Today, desperate, I read my HE’s suggestion and I tried again. My, I’m cheerful!)
I remember my first crocus the way Marcel remembered that madeleine. We were living in a rented house on rue Jean-Nicolet in Trois-Rivieres, Quebec, and snowbanks had disguised whatever garden the owners had devised. Late in March, on a sunny day, I heard my mother yelling “Come here! Look! Look!” And there it was, a tiny bell the color of an egg yolk, pushing through the snow.
My father’s birthday is the twenty-second of March, and my mother fostered festivity every chance she got. She made a birthday table centerpiece that I still remember being the most magical thing I’d ever seen in all my nine years. She filled a big crystal bowl with water, lit an armada of those floating birthday candles, and scattered crocus blossoms among the candles. We turned off the lights and gazed. Monet’s waterlilies have never come close to the wonder of that beautiful bowl.
I convulsed the grownups when I asked if a crocus was a “Hairbringer” of spring. Yes, they were hairbringers then, and they’re hairbringers now.