It was a ritual down at the Lake - at least once a weekend we would find time to pick a wildflower bouquet for our moms and for Bigmama. We had no shortage of flowers from which to choose - especially in the spring. And we made it our business to know the favorites of the recipients. My mom was partial to buttercups because yellow was her favorite hue. Pam loved the fiery reds of the Indian Blanket. Bigmama's bunch always included Black-Eyed Susans, if we could find them. No matter what was in bloom, our moms treated the small bouquets as if they were a dozen long-stemmed roses.
Most of the time, by the time we got the flowers back to the cabin, half of them were sadly wilting as a result of being in our hot, sticky little hands. Sometimes they would perk up once we put them in a Dixie cup of water. However, wildflowers do live up to their mane. They are wild, not meant to be domesticated by a Dixie cup or an empty jam jar. They would hold on valiantly for perhaps an afternoon, proudly displayed on the mantle of the fake fireplace - trophies presented to our moms as some sort of subconscious recognition for well timed hugs and perfect grilled cheese sandwiches. As the day progressed, the flowers would slowly wilt until someone noticed and took them back outside to set them free.