Mary Dansak

Every March, our yard erupts in trillium. We thrill to find these variegated triple-leafed plants poking through the ground like fat cones, soon unfurling skyward with leaves opening to reveal magenta blossoms. The trillium explodes in clumps and in singletons, rows and patches. Walking in our yard during early spring is to tiptoe and dance to keep from stepping on the plants underfoot. I have always appreciated this splendor, but until recently, did not know the story of the trilliums in our yard.

The unexpected death of Father Wells Warren has left this community, myself much included, shocked, deeply saddened, and pondering what it means to be alive with renewed vigor. Father Wells left a beautiful legacy. I dedicate this column to him.

‘Tis true, as youngsters we ran around the neighborhood like hooligans, pilfering trash piles for treasure, biking through our neighbors' backyards, and wetting our feet and clothes in every splashy creek. Despite the lore, we did, in fact, have a few steadfast rules.

I call myself a writer, an equestrian, and a naturalist. I usually come to this column in my writer and naturalist roles. You simply wouldn't believe the restraint I employ not to write about horses every week. Recently, I am engulfed in my writerly world. If you're here looking for spiders and snakes, move along. I'm fully taking advantage of this space today to share some upcoming events and a few thoughts on writing.

Recently, while horseback riding in the woods, I spotted a handful of brilliant yellow feathers on the ground. Struck by the unexpected slash of color against the brown leaves, I dismounted and examined them closer. These woodland treasures were tail feathers from a Northern Flicker. Holding them in my hand, I was immediately transported to my childhood yard, staring up into the tall loblolly pine trees, with my father beside me pointing to a bird perched on a branch.

My Aunt Frank had a huge magnolia tree in her front yard, surrounded by a sea of crab grass. Despite the inevitable stickers in our bare feet, my brother, our cousins and I scrambled through the cruel prickly patch to get to that tree. It demanded climbing. As soon as we reached the pile of crunchy, boat-shaped leaves under her branches, our feet were safe. Then we skedaddled up the limbs, high into our lofty fort, where we could eavesdrop for hours on the grown-ups yakking it up on the screened-in porch.

Boy, do folks ever get in a tizzy over aging. I can't go to any of my old-folk medical appointments without seeing ads for Botox! It's almost as if my aging body offends thee.

“Did you ever hear of Steller's sea cows,” Tipi Joe, our feral bonus-son, asked me the other day. I had not. Intrigued, I spent much of last weekend engrossed in learning about Stellar's sea cows, Hydrodamalis gigas.

One day, when I was in my late 40s, I woke up with an overwhelming sense that I was not myself anymore. Something was dreadfully amiss. I could not find pleasure in anything. Furthermore, my emotions went berserk. I was unable to pinpoint what was wrong with me. This state of living like a stranger to myself went on for years, accompanied by a new and most unwelcome brain fog.

When one of my stepmother's tiny dogs disappeared from her rural home, we blamed coyotes. I wanted to kill every coyote in Alabama to avenge her death. I had the same reaction when coyotes broke into an enclosure and killed an injured Canada goose my neighbors were raising. It seems all my animal-loving, live-and-let-live tolerance immediately gives way to violent fury when it comes to coyotes killing off pets.