“Spring has sprung; the grass is riz. I wonder where the boidie is? There’s a boid upon the wing. Well that’s absoid! I thought the wing was on the boid!”
In this way my mom greets springtime. Her mom always quoted that rhyme in the spring, among these hills, these flowers, these colorful chirping birds. My mom told me this week that my grandmother commuted to her job as head librarian at the Poway Library on a scooter. What?! Scooting is in my blood. It was inevitable. Spring is most glorious from the vantage point of a scooter, but since mine is on its way across the ocean, I’d say hiking or driving is a close second.
After always hearing my mom wax poetic about the glorious orange hillsides of California poppies, I feel very fortunate to have been here for the winter that broke the drought, that welcomed back hillsides of gold. Lupine, deep plum colored flowers, fruit blossoms in every shade of pink, and pervading everything, the heady sweet smell of orange blossoms—everything is blooming.
A couple days before my CHP trip to Bolivia I had a sore throat, so Isaac picked me a bunch of lemons from Saugier Grove. The beekeeper who keeps hives in Grandfather’s backyard had brought by a jar of honey harvested from the property. I sipped hot honey lemon concoction (all components harvested within steps), sunning myself on a rock like one of the many brown lizards, smelling the blossoms, while Isaac climbed the orange tree and dropped down ripe fruit, which I peeled and Eloise ate.
I can see what people like about California. Especially in the spring!