My favorite bloom of spring

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s porch season again.

I grew up spending many an hour on our front porch, reading mysteries and Archie comics on the long comfy glider; playing Michigan Rummy (or whatever became the game of summer each year); listening to a Phillies game in the quiet dark.

My brothers and sister and I made up porch games. One of my favorites? Counting cars. We’d settle on the winning number, say 10. Each player picked a color — white and black the most coveted — then counted cars of that color as they passed. If your color reached 10 first, you won! (Life is good when you’re easily amused.)

One summer in the ‘60s, our porch gave us a front-row seat when the township repaved the street. Trucks and noise and steam rollers and the smell of fresh asphalt! So cool for us kids, not so much for the grownups.

One memorable day we watched rain pour down across the street, while our side stayed dry. You figure there’s got to be a line somewhere …

When my husband I were looking to buy a house, a front porch topped my wish list — and my wish came true.

I sat on that porch Wednesday afternoon, feet up on a camping chair, working on my laptop. A breeze swept by, and brought with it the sweet scent of lilac.

I planted the lilac by our porch some 30 years ago, using shoots I dug up from the back yard of my childhood home. Our family no longer owns the house, but as far as I know that “mother tree” still stands. I hope so. It was already growing when our mom and dad moved there in the early 1950s, which would make it at least 75 years old.

Come spring, Dad would bring lilacs in for Mom, and she’d put them in a vase in the kitchen. When my lilac blooms each year, I think of them together in that kitchen, that house. The way they were together for more than 65 years. (They met in grade school, and Dad was smitten even back then.)

My path occasionally takes me by the old place. I noticed that the new owner has set out porch furniture. I hope he enjoys it as much as we did — and the lilac, too.

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I had fun reminiscing with my siblings as I wrote this. My sister reminded me of another --infamous -- family flower story.

A small patch of peonies grew by the back steps, and she decided to take some in for her second-grade teacher.

 

A neighbor offered her a ride to school that day, and she hopped into the back seat with her bouquet.

My sister loves peonies, but you know what else loves peonies? Ants.
Within a minute, the back seat of our neighbor’s car was full of them. (No good deed goes unpunished.)

My sister still gave the peonies to her teacher. And probably a few ants, too.