A few days ago, I took a walk downtown; something I haven’t done in a while. It felt good to get out and walk a different path for a change. Although I was out there trying to burn calories, I took time to look around and snap a few photos of things that interested me.
One of the images was of the bell tower in Baker Park. While I’ve seen it hundreds of times, I’ve never noticed the beautiful little path leading up to it. While walking that path I came across a patch of hostas in bloom with soft purple flowers, and instantly a vivid memory of my childhood came rushing in.
The suburban home I grew up in had a small yard that my mom and dad kept neat and tidy. In the backyard, along our garage, was a row of lush hostas that I’m guessing had been there for many years. When I was little, those plump, purple buds … just before they bloomed … were like bubble wrap to me. Yup, you read that right. I just couldn’t help myself from taking the delicate petals between my fingers and squeezing them. The popping sound they made delighted me. Of course, I imagine it didn’t delight my mom.
I can’t actually recall her scolding me for popping the hostas, which makes me wonder if she ever noticed. (Who am I kidding? Of course, she did.) It’s more likely that she did yell at me and I just don’t remember. What I do know is that I would have completely deserved the telling-off!
While I would never even consider defiling a beautiful hosta today, this memory made me think about how I’ve shielded myself this last year; building a soft, delicate bubble around my memories just waiting to be popped. Or, perhaps, just waiting to bloom? Either way, I think it’s time to pop this “hosta.” Who knows, maybe I’ll be delighted at what I find?
Until next time …
Here are a few more photos from my walk …