Hearts A'bustin' with Wildflowers

Iris steps foot on the Appalachian trail in the Smokies, a life-log dream come true
Let the weather forecasters talk of snow, ice, and tornadoes blowing in from the west. I’m listening to the Peepers, Sand Hill Cranes, and Robins. “Spring is here!” they sing.
            We would do well to remember this is typical April, the month of winter’s famous last tantrums. Just when we’ve enjoyed a few fine days in shirtsleeves outside, she likes to throw us off track, show us she’s boss.
More scientifically put, the clash of moist, warm air from the Gulf of Mexico with cool, dry air from Canada creates hazardous weather conditions. If it’s not a blizzard or ice storm, April sends forth a killer frost upon blossomed fruit trees while we sleep. The damage is enough to make a grown gardener cry because that means her thousands of wisteria buds will turn to dust.
Wake Robin Trillium
           Yet, through these tribulations we learn to stand in our ruins. We develop patience and resilience. We use our minds, heart, and hands to care for what we have. Perhaps next April will be kinder.
As we pass through Nature’s four seasons and man’s seven ages, we adapt and grow in wisdom to release what we have lost with grace and forgiveness. Each age brings amendments to our minds, bodies, and lifestyle.
I first noted April’s capricious weather April 5, 1975, when I delivered my second child in Crittenton Hospital, Rochester. Kelly Elizabeth came swiftly and naturally, the way my husband and I had hoped and prayed while participating in Lamaze classes. I held my newborn and adored her sleeping face.
That night, after my husband left for my sister and brother-in-law’s house, I gazed out the window into the darkness. Becky, our firstborn, now had a sister. We were a family of four and would never be the same. Our baby’s yellow gingham bassinette embellished with rickrack awaited Kelly in our two-bedroom townhouse we suddenly outgrew.
When Mel and Becky arrived the next morning, our four-year old looked through the nursery glass for her first glance at baby Kelly.
Trout Lily along the Appalachian Trail

On our drive south to Warren, Mel mentioned the treacherous roads the previous night. A blizzard had swept through the Metro Detroit area as Kelly and I slept. There wasn’t a trace of snow anywhere.
From that April to this, I expect snow or ice before the month expires. I’ve recorded a few dates with snow flurries in May.

Forty-three years later, April’s drama returned to the forecast—heavy rains and high winds from the west aimed toward Lexington, Kentucky, our destination the following afternoon. We visited Uncle Tab on our way to The Great Smoky Mountains.
By the time you read this, dear Reader, our Wildflower Tour directed by Seven Ponds Nature Center naturalists Carrie and Cathy will be history. 

I have at last walked a patch of the Appalachian Trail and paths lush with yellow, white, and red Trillium, Fringed Phacelia, and shrubs like “Hearts-abustin’-with-Love.” All accompanied by birdsong and binoculars.
Now, how could a gray-headed gardener allow April’s tantrums to deter such glorious springtime adventure?
Especially a flower lover named Iris.