My Own Silent Spring

My grandparents had a large yard, probably about one-and-a-half acres.  It had some great climbing trees, a large vegetable garden, and some flower beds raised up about two or three feet in wonderful stone rings.  Their yard was up against a wood with a creek bordered by laurel.  Deer and rabbits and the occasional bear came into their yard out of those woods.  It was a great place to be a kid.

When I was very young, I especially loved the butterflies that filled their yard in Spring.  I used to refer to them as “my butterflies,” which apparently everyone found very cute.  One Spring when I was probably just four years old, I asked why their weren’t any butterflies.  The adults assured me that they were around.  But they weren’t.  My grandparents found out that the farmer down the road had over-sprayed his fields with pesticide.  There really were very few butterflies that Spring.

I wish I was still so aware of my environment and nature’s cycles.

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