Day trips down country roads
By Hannah Dougherty Campbell Love in a Puff. Snow on the Mountain, Sweet Annies. Hyacinth Bean. No, these aren't trendy cocktails, but lovely flowers I've come to know via day trips down country roads.
By Hannah Dougherty Campbell
Love in a Puff.
Snow on the Mountain, Sweet Annies.
Hyacinth Bean.
No, these aren't trendy cocktails, but lovely flowers I've come to know via day trips down country roads.
Years ago, elderly neighbors shared their road-trip tips with me. Get a cooler and drive into Lancaster County to visit Shady Maple, not only for their smorgasbord, but also for their great deals on meats. Stock up your freezer, saving money and using gas wisely.
I used to laugh at this, thinking that I'd never reach the senior citizen milestone of equating lower-priced food to equal an empty gas tank.
However, now that Mike and I are retired, we enjoy driving back country roads near Ephrata. The little whitewashed roadside stands, set among their fields of flowers and fruits and staffed by white bonneted Mennonite women entice me into the slight gravel lot.
In the month of June, the weekend of my grandson John's christening, I was thrilled to spot innocent bright white calla lilies in Mason jars, a slice of masking tape around the band with the crazy price of $3.50. I had to have more, and the young lady eagerly offered to scour the fields and pick the best ones, along with the tall leaves to set them off.
I was smitten with my lot and, as we drove further down the road, I noticed another smaller stand had bunches of callas. The honor system box gave the price and I dropped a $20 bill into the slot for a hundred lilies.
Up and down and around and around the roads we went, Mike and I, stopping at stands holding blue cardboard boxes of fresh black raspberries and blueberries - and more vases of flowers.
Tropical zinnias stood at attention surrounded by snazzy snapdragons, crimson cockscombs, and leaves of every shade to balance the act. Nary a junk flower in the lot and I know junk flower fillers when I see them.
No whiff of preservatives as the bunches are lifted from their jars and wrapped into wet newspapers, just fresh garden flowers from God's green Earth, some of which remained beneath the nails of the women handing them to me. Two elderly sisters had the best bunches for sale in lovely vases I could keep. They are the ones who added love in a puff and the others as an afterthought, teaching me about them while standing on their humble wooden porch, aprons blowing in the breeze and sweat drops on their brow. They were off to make grape juice from their huge crop of green and purple beauties and gave me a sly smile when I asked if they ever made wine from them.
"Can I give you a call before I come up this way again to let you know what I'm looking for?" I asked.
They shook their heads no in unison. They don't have a phone so I'll have to send them a postcard with my requests ahead of my next trip, and they will answer me back.
Mike and I are thrilled with our loot. Once home, the foods and fruit will go right into our new chest freezer - purchased for the same purpose our neighbors told us about years ago. On our way back, we pass houses with crisp clean clothing blowing in summer's wind, just another demonstration of the hard work and peaceful living of the Mennonite women we met. We'll long remember their offerings of gourds as large as snakes, tender red beets as tiny as radishes, berries for every pie, and pickles for every picnic.
Our ride home is heavenly for the memories of a country day trip and the fragrance of flowers in the back seat. How I'll miss the summer season.