Rural Routes, Blog Version

I know at least one person who dislikes the scent of lilacs and, if there is one, there must be others.

But for me, the fragrance is one of the loveliest I know. It reminds me of our yard growing up and also of the yards where both sets of grandparents lived. Lilacs were a common shelterbelt on the Canadian prairies.

Recently we were in the cemetery where my mother-in-law’s cremains would be interred. There are lilac bushes there, too.

A young couple, the stepson and step-daughter-in-law of my husband’s sister, asked me to identify the adjacent graves.

“My father-in-law’s dad and his second wife,” I said.

“And over there?” they asked, pointing east.

“My father-in-law’s brother and his wife,” I said.

Then I pointed out where my mother-in-law’s family was buried, closer to the cemetery entrance.

“And this is my mom and dad,” I said. “My brother, my paternal grandparents and my dad’s brother.”

“Away in the far corner over there are my mother’s parents and siblings.”

“There is a lot of family history here,” the young man said.

“We came to Manitoba from British Columbia with our parents,” he said. “So, there is nowhere here that we could go that would have that multi-generation family connection.”

It is another reminder that, although we no longer live in the community, my husband and I are tied to that place by history.

And, since Fathers’ Day just passed, I am reminded of the annual cemetery visits my family made. After supper each Fathers’ Day, my parents, siblings and I would accompany my paternal grandmother and uncle to visit my grandfather’s grave.

Amma would take flowers and water; she would plant the flowers and water them. And then we would all take a wander around the graves and monuments, talking about the stories that went with each name.

There are more graves now in the cemetery. The old stories are older and there are newer stories to tell.

One of those graves is my father’s. I was 36 years old when he died.

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Have you ever noticed that, after hearing or seeing something one day, the topic will come up again in the following days?

Walking the dog out in the country recently, my husband found several cowslips and picked one for me. It was past its prime, but still lovely.

I remember how, as a child, I would pull the flower from its stem and suck the sweetness there.

Years ago, I searched the internet for the scientific name of the wildflower but was never able to find anything that fit.

My husband remembered a recent conversation he had had in which exactly that question was asked. What is the proper name for the cowslip flower?

Then two days later, someone on a social media site posted a picture of the flower.

I call it a cowslip, she said, but what other name does it go by?

Almost immediately, she got the answer. It is a hoary puccoon, she was told, otherwise known as Lithospermum canescens. She was also told that ‘cowslip’ is incorrect, although the word is so widely used that it might as well be correct.

I searched for the terms online and discovered that, yes, both of these terms applied to the little wildflowers that can be found in the three prairie provinces.

Rightly or wrongly, I shall continue to call it a cowslip. The words rolls off the tongue more easily than ‘hoary puccoon’ and it just sounds nicer. To me, at least.

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Lilacs and cowslips – signs and scents of late spring. But there are others.

My words from another life:

“June is when all the weeds you never even knew existed begin to grow in your garden.

June is when every time your child comes home from school, the knees on his/her jeans are grass-stained and/or shredded.

June is when bedtime becomes harder and harder to enforce.

June is field days and picnics and end-of-school achievements. It is high school graduation.

June is wild roses, tiger lilies and lady slippers. It is fireflies flickering in the darkness.

Like all time, it will slip away quickly. Only to those with an eye on the freedom of summer will it seem endless.”

– “Rural Routes”, Sharron Arksey (2000)

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