As a child I dreamed of Eugene Field's Sugarplum Tree ("tis a marvel of great renown," after all) in the Garden of Shut-Eye Town. As an old 32-year old, I have shaken off the Sugarplum Tree in favor of Forsythia, Plums, Crabapples, Eastern Redbuds.
The real blossoms of spring are always so unbelievably wonderful that I am woozy with delight. Because of the Big Snow, spring is especially glorious here, the blooms various and rich. The forsythia is a million golden exclamation marks along our side yard, where Martin planted ten more bushes.In a moment of prenatal fancy, I wanted to name our smallest child Beatrix Fern Forsythia Cockroft, since she was born at the height of the forsythia two years ago, but Martin told me I would be sorry. Would I have been sorry? I don't think so. Maybe she would have been. So I've been slipping in the name Forsythia where I can. I even have a LL Bean catalog that comes to Forsythia Cockroft, and it is a name that should have been, my dears.
Beatrix turned two on the same day I turned thirty years more than she; so we celebrated all week with good people--here, handsome Roberto. Beatrix has learned what candles are for; she pointed to hers and said, "I want Happy-Day!" She celebrated by running around outside for days, coming indoors only to get somewhat clean and to sleep.
Friend Sally baked me a fantastic meringue torte and took my children most of the day. What a gal, Sal. Since I thought I was thirty-two all of last year, I don't feel much older.
Only now with three delights, I feel full of energy when I am not exhausted, ready for excitement when I am not content to fall asleep at 10:30, and generally happier than could possibly be deserved.
