Years ago, we lived near an ornery old woman named Sarah who liked to fish and listen to the old farmers gossip and drink coffee down at the bar in the tiny town where my husband taught. She went to the bar for coffee because the old ladies at the quilting circle down at the city building kicked her out for talking too much. Rather than let it get to her, she went to the bar, which was a lot more fun, anyhow. In spite of all this, she was the flower lady at the catholic church, and every week she placed flowers on the altar from the yard around her home that had more flowers than blades of grass. She gave me bulbs of her purple iris that I loved and I've kept them alive for 5 moves and 20 years. Every spring, on the anniversary of her death, the luscious light purple iris bloom, and I remember how much more fun it is not to "fit in", and how much I am like Sarah.
And I revel in all of our beauty.She loved sunsets, flowers, and children, especially children. "God has counted the hairs on our heads." she used to tell them, to let them know they were important.
Now, I've got to tell you, I've looked at Quiet Spring a thousand times, and each time it becomes more alive to me. If I knock at that door, I know Sarah is behind it, and I will see her smile again. Or at least that's the way it seems...
Thanks for reading,
Carroll Jones III
P.O. Box 3090
Jersey City, NJ 07303