Picking Flowers

(Here is a sweet, nostalgic essay written in 1993 when my daughter was four.)

It is one of those Autumn mornings where the sky, blotched with wispy clouds, is a deep cool blue and the trees' green leaves are tinged with yellow/orange hues. I suggest to my daughter, Aspen Louise, that we go for a walk. Naturally, my idea of a walk and my daughter's understanding of the word turn out to be completely different. I get out the stroller, even though Aspen is four, and envision pushing her along at a brisk pace so I can get some exercise. My daughter brings Carolina, her hand sewn cloth doll, and settles cozily into the stroller seat. What a lovely day for a fast walk, I think. We'll be back in thirty minutes.

I begin pushing my daughter down the sidewalk, pointing out this cloud and that tree, talking about the change from summer to winter. We notice cats lounging in the warm sun and squirrels chasing each other up twisted pine branches. I am beginning to work up a sweat and Aspen seems perfectly content to sit and ride. Then, after taking a shortcut through our fairgrounds, we come upon a street which borders a river canal. I promise Aspen we will see ducks. Yes, I promise her we will SEE lots of things. But I don't mean we'll stop and try to be part of the scenery we are passing.

Suddenly Aspen isn't comfortable anymore with just sitting. We put her doll in the stroller and she pushes it gently and slowly. Now we aren't going in a straight line, but rather we are meandering to the left and to the right.

“Watch out for bicycles and people,” I warn her.

She jerks to a stop and begins picking a few wild flowers.

“That flower is called Queen Anne's Lace,” I mention, sounding like a botany professor.

But before I can finish my mini lecture, she is excitedly telling me about the possibility that there might be blackberries.

“Blackberries are gone because summer has ended,” I reply with authority. I am starting to realize my exercise walk is deteriorating rapidly.

“Don't you want to get back into the stroller?” I implore. No, she definitely has other plans.

My dear daughter has found some purple thistle weed. She picks one stem and then breaks out into a wonderfully joyous smile as she discovers there are several more down the road.

“These are for Daddy,” she declares proudly after gathering five thistle weeds.

“Let's keep going. I'm sure there's ducks on the other side of the canal,” I suggest.

“But I want to pick blackberries,” she insists.

As a relatively new mother I never want to disappoint my child. “OK,” I say, “there's some blackberry bushes over there; but I'm sure the blackberries are all gone by now.”

Aspen strides undaunted to the blackberry haven on the edge of the canal. By this time I discover I am the one pushing the doll in the stroller. When I reach Aspen she is carefully examining each bush for its possible juicy remains.

“I'm afraid the berries are dried up,” I say trying to sound remorseful rather than right.

“Look, Mom, there's a berry.”

To my surprised eye I reach over and hand her the berry. We walk on and look for more. One, two, three, four five berries!

“Aspen, it's still blackberry season,” I say hugging her. A knowing smile of magic and self-assurance crosses her sweet face.

She climbs back into the stroller for a short ride across the street to the continuation of the river canal. On this side there are ducks and ducks and more ducks.

She gets up and ambles to the bank: “There's a hole in the river for the ducks to walk through.” I wish we had brought some cracked corn, but in my haste to get out the door I forgot it.

“Wouldn't it be nice to be a duck,” I suggest, “just floating and drifting in the lazy sun?”

“I want to be a bird and fly,” replies Aspen.

We wander slowly now and see what appears to be a baby blue heron. We pause and watch it strut from rock to rock. Then Aspen finds some beautiful blue flowers and picks five to go with her original bouquet.

Our walk is turning into a nature stroll and my hurry to have it end is subsiding. This time I point out to Aspen that up ahead there appears to be a huge blackberry bush. I believe my daughter's magic touch will certainly produce an abundance of the desired fruit. We skip and finally run to our destination. The many clumped together bushes are as big as a family of giants. Aspen and I both delightfully find and eat several ripe berries.

Our faces smeared with blackberry juice, we get home and it has been more than an hour since we have been gone. Aspen is beaming and I am beaming too. She insists on calling Daddy at work to tell him we have found blackberries. I wish I could have the faith and the belief of my child in life's ordinary, positive wonder. How can I forget so easily about everyday hidden treasures?

“We have to bring Daddy to the giant blackberry bush.”

“Yes,” I reply, “let's bring him there this weekend.”

“But we have to start from the beginning,” insists my daughter, “and do the whole walk and pick flowers.”

“Yes,” I smile.

© 2012