I'm sitting here, listening to the rain, a gentle rhythmic falling from the sky. Cool crisp air hints of autumn, but part of me still lingers in summer.

As I edit this photo, my mind plays out one of those tiny moments that seem like nothing on the surface but still manage to float through my memories nearly 50 years later.

We'd just moved, from one tiny town to another, and this new world around me proved rich for exploring. My sister and I roamed everywhere, for blocks and blocks. Tiny patches of wild flowers, ripe for the picking dotted the landscape. These I could gather, take home, and enjoy. Sheer magic, indeed, since at our last home, I'd learned several hard lessons about not doing the same with our neighbor's plantings!

I can picture that corner where Green Street met one end of Octorara Avenue, thick with weeds, trees, and these tiny flowers I'd never noticed before. Gravel bit into my knees, as I knelt down to investigate further, then begin to pick. 

Flash forward a bit, the scene shifting to my mother and I sitting on her bed, flowers everywhere and soft afternoon light coming through the sheers on her windows. She gently explains that the flowers are Bachelor's Buttons, a name that made no sense to this 7 year old. So, we talked.

We talked about what a bachelor was, a very strange concept initially because pretty much everyone I knew seemed to be married. With a bit of gently prodding on my mom's part, I realized that many of my uncles were the perfect example of bachelors, never married, probably never would be.

But then, more confusion ensued. As my mom explained that many bachelors wore flowers in the lapels of their suits, especially on important occasions, I began to protest. My seemingly almost always drunk unmarried uncles would not have been caught dead with a flower anywhere on them.

I don't remember how mom explained that one; mostly I just remember that tangle of utter confusion about this flower's name mixed with delight in the flower itself. 

It's such a tiny memory, a few random minutes of my childhood, of my mother. 

A few random minutes intertwined with love.