Recently while looking through my grandparents’ old papers and things, I found this sweet little story about spring. I believe it was written by Pauline Eikenberry, a friend (and artist) of my grandmother, Lois Crook. They were members of a women’s social club in Flora, Ind. and both have since passed away. I like reading the retro articles in the Indy Star, and I thought you may want to put this in a spring issue of Current. Thank you.
The Miracle of Spring
Just as they have done through the years on the same day in March, the swallows winged their long, mysterious and tiring return journey back to their home in the old walls of Capastrano. Family washings that have dried in basements and dark dryers will once again wave their banners on the backyard lines in the warm and sun kissed breeze. Was there ever a fragrance half as rewarding or sweet?
Under the hypnotic spell of spring’s return, we soon forget the sound of the crunch of snow and ice under our feet. The full blast of that strong northwestern that made us button up our overcoats. The dead brown grass that slept beneath that carpet of white. Why, new green blades are appearing among the brown, and tiny crocus, daffodils and tulips have started to miraculously appear. How wonderful is this promise of another springtime.