When Sarah called this week to remind me that the sunflowers at White Oaks were in full bloom, I had a moment. It was more than a just moment. For a vivid split second I felt myself -- I was -- probably younger than five and standing near my father's fenced garden. So tall sunflowers bloomed along the fence. Dad's voice was saying something about how large the flowers are and how they keep their faces to the sun. Before I recognized what was happening I was back. Wow.
Early memories are few. I do in a vague sort of way actually remember the garden and the sunflowers and my father's explaining. It must have been very early. Time for leisure activities like a vegetable garden and sunflowers didn't last long in my father's life. But, after that encounter I could recognize a sunflower when I saw one.
So, today, while on errands along "the Ridge," I stopped at White Oaks to make pictures. Alone in acres of yellow saucers, loudly a-hum with bees, I let the 55-or-so years compress, stepping back and forth between locations, realities, looking at sunflowers as though I'd never seen one before.
Wondrous. Simply wondrous.
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