My relationship with violets began when I was a small child. Just up the road from our house along the ditch was huge patch of wild violets that would spill varying shades of purple along the roadside every spring. I would pick what I imagined were enormous handfuls and bring them to my mother to put in water. She had a shallow cut glass dish that she would float the blossoms in after having pinched the stems off near the buds. I thought that was a wonderful way to display them until years later I realized that in my childish enthusiasm, I had probably given her no choice in the matter. I'm sure the stems were somewhat worse for wear by the time she received the poor things.

Over the years, the flower has become a special symbol for us. Since I have grown up and moved away, every spring we send each other cards with a few pressed violets inside. Sometimes they will even pass each other in the mail. Whenever I open one and see the slightly withered, but still vivid blooms, I am immediately transported back to that time when the most important thing in the world was choosing which flowers would go into the glass dish.

Recently, I received an unexpected and quite unseasonable gift. Evidently some violets had incorrectly set their botanical clocks, and bloomed in defiance of Mother Nature's edicts. Mom came across them and immediately sent them my way. When I unfolded the note card and saw those small recalcitrant buds, I realized that I have sold violets short. The mental image I have always had really doesn't do them justice. They have some surprisingly tough characteristics for a flower I have always thought of as being delicate.

Their appearance is actually quite deceptive. The sweet, heart-shaped leaves are reminiscent of purity and evocative of gentleness. However, the phrase "has heart", referring to courage, may be just as applicable. It takes a great deal of "heart" to bloom in the earliest part of spring, at a time when it is not uncommon for a frost to wither everything back to a wintry crisp. One would not expect these fragile-appearing beings to thrive under such a distinct possibility. The demure blossoms are like a child hiding its face behind the brim of a sunbonnet, but if one peeps behind those petals, the colors are surprisingly vivid. The deep royal purple is unabashedly intense, and even the palest blush-gray blooms have a wash of purple in their throats. This blatant beauty is not volunteered to just anyone passing by, but the reward far outweighs the effort required of the observer.

So, did those violets that decided to bloom that early spring day really forget to set their germinal clock? Or did they just follow their shyly sly nature and rebel? Regardless of the reason, they offer a lesson to those willing to learn. The things that we consider both familiar and beloved should be taken out and reexamined occasionally. We might be surprised at the new pleasures and unexpected knowledge we gain from them.

Lisa Barr
College of Nursing