Ohio Irish American News: A Story from this Month’s Issue: Blowin’ In: Nature Casts Her Spell
May 17th, 2012
Blowin’ In: Nature Casts Her Spell
By Susan Mangan
In May
Here child
Touch the silken blooms
of apple-blossom time.
Take my hand, let us explore
A world filled with jumbled rhymes
And nature’s lore.
Isn’t it curious
How the May Apple arrives
Upon the forest floor
In spring
With fruit invisible to all
But a fairy and her kin?
Listen to the sparrow
Trill
“Believe”
Beneath a perfumed canopy
Dogwood-white
You and I surely will.
On the Missouri farm where my mother was reared, springtime meant asparagus. Granddad kept a twenty-five foot bed of asparagus against an old wooden fence near a row of black walnut trees. This bed produced enough asparagus to keep a family of seven fed for days. All it needed was manure and sun, plenty of which was available in this neck of the Ozarks. Mother’s oldest brother Rich didn’t like this vegetable, so the siblings would scuffle over his portions to add to their scramble of hen-house fresh eggs. Simple times, simple pleasures.
This spring, like Alice in Wonderland bent over a magical pool of water, I squatted next to my own asparagus bed. Lovingly, I brushed away the amber oak leaves scattered atop the garden. Curious, I could not help myself as I had to touch the thick tips of asparagus shouldering their way out of the warming soil. Their skins were pond green, kissed with violet, and luxuriously soft like silk.
As quickly as a child chasing a butterfly in flight, I ran to the house crying out for anyone who may want to listen, “The asparagus is up! Come see!” The boys were playing video games and my girl looked at me in exasperation, “Mother, asparagus is boring.” Deflated, I went back outside on my own, not sure how I fit in our twenty-first world.
When I was a girl, one of my greatest adventures in the natural world transpired at a southern Missouri blueberry patch. My grandmother Mim and Aunt Peggy loved fresh peaches from the orchard and plump indigo blueberries so rotund that they could barely cling to the branches. The freshest, pick-yourself fruits were turned into delectable cobblers dripping with hand-churned ice cream and sugar-sprinkled lattice-topped pies. Such homespun delicacies were even more memorable because I helped pick the fruit on blistering hot summer mornings.
At Steinbaugh’s Orchard, customers were given pint and gallon sized tin pails and charged by the pail at the end of the picking session. My pint-sized pail was never quite full as more berries ended up in my belly than in my bucket. The work was hard for the adults who came to fill quart after quart needed for pie and ice cream. Thorns from the bushes scratched unprotected wrists and the sun beat relentlessly on canvas sun hats.
Blithely, we children would bunny hop through prickly rows of bushes and sneak juicy berries from our mothers’ pails. There is nothing quite like the burst of juice from a fat blueberry left to ripen in thick clusters in the baking sun. The taste is pure, elemental, the essence of halcyon summer days.
In spite of sharp stabs of stomach pain, I kept popping blueberry after blueberry into my insatiable mouth until Nature confronted my greed. Carefully, I reached for what had to be the most perfect, most scrumptious, most tempting berry of the day. Perfectly round and perfectly blue, I almost had the fruit in my dirty, plump little hand when I saw the berry’s sentry hovering above its glorious form.
Staring back at me with glaring red eyes was the largest black and yellow spider that I had ever seen. Terrified, I dropped my pail, the few berries in residence rolling across the sun-baked clay, and shrieked with a screech so loud I could be heard on the other side of the Mississippi River. Like Eve cast from the Garden of Eden, I realized I could not have my pie and eat it too!
Nature exerts her power in ways both subtle and stunning. Flashes of red, heat lightning startle and surprise, while the gentle fragrance of lilac blooms transports us to a more innocent time. In Ireland, the wild flowers read like a litany of fairy-tale rhymes. Cow Parsley rises from the fields with delicate white buds and elegant foliage. Cowslip
Legend has it that the Blessed Virgin Mary lay on white Heath Bedstraw during her labor with Our Lord and miraculously the flowers turned from white to gold, and thus became known as Lady’s Bedstraw. Beautiful and beguiling, Nature does enchant.
Most curious to me is the Irish wildflower Neantóg, Urtica dioica, or better known as the Stinging Nettle. The first bit of Irish wisdom that was imparted upon my children by their grandmother was “Never touch a Stinging Nettle!” We taught the children how to identify the ubiquitous nettle that sprung from every bog and pasture and how to best avoid it.
There is a grotto near the Uncle’s home where the villagers once prayed the rosary each Friday night. Hosts of Stinging Nettles now creep around the base of the statue and the children must beware when gathering flowers to place at the Virgin’s feet.
One St. John’s Eve, my daughter learned the hard way that Nature gives but can take with a vengeance. Trying to help build the ritual bonfire, Katie grabbed for a tall weed. Instantly, her hand was set afire by the hairy Stinging Nettle. The aunts rushed to find the Dock plant, which curiously grows near the nettle, to treat my daughter’s stinging hand. A little dab of Irish butter coupled with the soothing leaves of the Dock provided the necessary remedy.
Though the Stinging Nettle’s reputation is fierce, country cooks use nutrient rich young leaves from the Stinging Nettle plant in an Irish soup called Brotchan Neanntóg. Italians braise it with broth and swirl the leaves into delicate ribbons of pasta. English cooks mix cooked leaves with custard to create Stinging Nettle pie. Nature does indeed provide for the industrious.
Coaxed into Nature’s lair, we succumb to the force of her sun and are rewarded with gifts and humbled by her power. After the dreary cold of winter, our muscles loosened, our spirits energized, we are ready to fall into the arms of our enchantress.
*Sources consulted: Aykeroyd, John. A Beginner’s Guide to Ireland’s Wild Flowers. Cork, Ireland: City Print Ltd, 2008.
Internet Source: Miles Collins – Beyond the Kitchen.
*Susan holds a Master’s Degree in English from John Carroll University and a Master’s Degree in Education from Baldwin-Wallace College. She may be contacted at suemangan@yahoo.com.


















