I had it all in my head this morning. I knew exactly what I wanted to write about, even if I didn’t have the details. That is, until I read my Best-Friend-Blogger’s post this morning, and that’s when I knew I must change directions. That’s the way it sometimes works for me: the details flow through my fingers when I’m not paying attention, and I focus on a weed.
When I was a little girl, the pastures were full of flowers: Milkweed, clover, grasses, mustard, coffee, dandelions, cornflower, picker bushes, rambling rose, and Queen Anne’s Lace. Me and Bonita and Vickie went on adventures in those fields. Every step was full of different smells and tastes. Of course we tasted things. Mom told us we could die or get a stomach ache. We never did.
Clover grew way down low under the clothesline. Deanna tried to find a four-leaf clover, ’cause Continue reading