NEWS FROM THE HILLS
Dear Cousin,
When God looks down and sends spring to kiss our hills, it is almost more than the heart can bear. My brother Larry and I walked around the yard early this morning, simply absorbing the sight and sounds of springtime. The sun was barely peeping above Pilot Knob, and the air was crisp and invigorating.
The apple trees in the bottom were in full bloom, their pink and white blossoms sending forth a delicate fragrance. The flowering crab tree in the back yard is festooned with deep pink flowers, and the lilac bushes are bursting forth with their pods of purple bloom. The long, graceful branches of the weeping willow sway in the breeze.
The lawn looks as if King Midas has scattered his entire treasure chest of gold coins over it, as dandelions spring up through the green grass. Along the ditch line the common blue violets are blooming in thick clumps, and brilliant swallowtail butterflies float effortlessly through the air.
There is a medley of song as dozens of tiny feathered throats send up a psalm of praise heavenward. Although there are different melodies, it blends together in one harmonious sound of thanksgiving. Life is good, they seem to say.
A flash of golden wings shine overhead as a pair of goldfinches settle on a limb of the maple tree close to the finch feeder. We look in the banty pen where a protective mother clucks anxiously at her little chicks. They are about the size of a large marshmallow, and just as soft. Grazing on the hillside above us is the young heifer Rosabelle, heavy with calf. New life is springing up all around us.
Larry takes a deep breath of the clean country air and exclaims, “I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else!” I agree completely. Spring was slow in coming, but it seemed to explode almost overnight. It has been worth the wait.
It is so hard to stay indoors when spring is calling. I escaped the house and waded the creek to the woodsy path on the other side. Patches of bluets spotted the ground, and violets of different hues were scattered all around—shades of blue and purple, golden yellow ones, and peeping through the moss in the cleft of the rocks were tiny white ones
Pure white trilliums look like fallen stars spread among the leaves, and the delicate flowers of the wood anemone flutter on their thin stalks. It is easy to see why they are called “windflowers.” Pale pink flowers of the cut-leafed toothwort hang bell-like on their stalks.
I have often wondered why some of our loveliest wildflowers are called by such crude names. The cut-leafed toothwort derives its name from the projections on its underground stems or rhizomes. Daisy fleabane is another example. This pretty daisy-like flower, which is blooming now, ranges in shades of white to delicate pink with a yellow center. Its name originated from an early belief that the dried flowers could rid a dwelling of fleas.
I was looking for morel mushrooms, but failed to find any. When I came across patches of pink spring beauties, I decided to have a mess of “tanglefoot” instead. This is harvested by pulling up the entire plant, root and all. There were a few sprigs of wood lettuce growing nearby, which was added to the bag.
These wild greens were added to our evening meal. After they were cleaned and washed well, I wilted them with vinegar, bacon grease and sugar. Mom and I relished them, and Criss ate some, “mooing” like a cow as he did so. My sister Jeannie dropped in to visit, and finished off the bowlful.
It is rare to return from the woods this time of year without something good to eat. We have found a few yellow morel mushrooms, but are hoping that the main crop is yet to come. Springtime would not be complete without a good mess of ramps and we have had more than one mess. We have always gathered the William’s River variety, but our friend Gary Duffield of Duck declared that the Ohio variety were better.
He made a trip to visit relatives in Ohio, and brought us back a sack full. I will have to admit that they were milder and sweeter. Perhaps, like the Vidalia onion, the soil they grow in makes a difference. A true ramp lover will search for ways to preserve these tasty little wild leeks, although after a few messes I am ready to wait for another spring.
Spears Stanley of Eskdale called to inquire about canning them, and after a little research, the general opinion is that they are not good canned. My niece Debbie said that she and her mother tried canning them one time, and they were slimy and awful. However, they can be frozen successfully.
The best way is to place the raw ramps in a Mason jar, (a plastic one is ideal) and freeze without water added. My sister Mary Ellen says her neighbor chops the ramps, and places them raw in a glass jar. She then adds water, leaving room for expansion, and freezes them.
Ah! Spring in the hills is good. Each time I see a redbud tree dripping with lavender flowers, or the river rippling along and catching glints of sunshine, or a field of dandelions like liquid drops of sun, I have to pause and say, “Thank you, Lord, for your beautiful world.” Give everyone big hugs for me,
Love,
Cousin Alyce Faye
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