When spring arrives and I begin thinking of outdoor activities, my mind usually races outside ahead of me. While sitting comfortably in my big green chair looking at the glorious sunshine slanting in my window, my nomadic brain takes me beyond the walls and across decades. Without moving as much as a little toe I find myself back on the prairie farm experiencing the glories of spring.
Water spills from the big slough on the south quarter, rushing gaily down the gully on its way to join the swelling ponds in the coulee bottom. At age 8, I stand in my rubber boots in the edge of the torrent, water spilling over the top. If I go home with wet feet mother will blister my bottom. I laugh, because this time I’ve fooled her. I slip my hand into my pocket to feel my dry socks. I’ll leave my soaked boots in the lean-to and pad into the kitchen in dry stockinged feet.
I shift my body in my chair, but my wandering brain skips almost a decade and I feel the rush of wind over my face and hear the hoof beats of galloping horses. My brother beside me holds the taut reins in his hands, guiding the team along the wagon track through the field. The horses share our joy on this glorious spring day. The democrat sways and bounces, skidding sideways as the trail skirts a thicket of poplars and willows. My brother hands me the reins, picks up his rifle, and fires off three shots at the largest of the poplar trees. He is a crack shot, but we can’t tell if he came anywhere near the target. I reluctantly return the reins. A speeding team, thrilled to be free from the barn, and two reckless teenagers welcome the spring. We race across the prairie in a buckboard, a scene from a western movie.
A ray of sunlight falls across my face and I turn slightly in my chair. My mind shifts to another scene. As a 9-year-old, I help my mother plant the garden. She has dug long grooves across the black soil and now hands me packets of seed. Each package has a picture: peas, carrots, squash, beets, parsnips, or corn. The pictures make the vegetables look bigger and more colourful than real life. Following her exacting instructions, I drop the seeds into the grooves, then mount the empty envelopes on sticks at the end of each row. Next, I fill in the grooves, covering the seeds. I have one bad moment. While holding the parsnip seeds in my hand, I consider throwing them away rather than planting them.
As I stand looking over my finished work, rows of carrots catch my eye. I hate cooked carrots almost as much as parsnips. At meal times, I distract Mother, hiding the soggy yellow pests in my pocket until I can ditch them outside. Yet, I love raw carrots and often steal them from the garden. At most meals, I beg Mother not to cook them, but plead for her to make a carrot and raisin salad instead.
I stir in my chair, my brain returns to April 2008, I look out the window and think of rushing water and wet rubber boots, racing horses, and gardens. I wondered what I can do to celebrate spring.
I’ll leave my socks on, I don’t have a team or a rifle, and haven’t got a garden. But I can do something really exciting. I’ll go to the kitchen and make a carrot and raisin salad.