Memories

I was walking between the long term care center and the hospital today and the smell of the wild clover was just overwhelming. Smell is one of the strongest of the senses that evokes memories and as is true to form, recollections of my childhood started flooding over me.

Dry land farming is the primary form of farming in the high, rolling plains of Montana, and I spent most of my life praying for no rain in the spring so the farmers could get their crops planted, then the next three months praying for rain so that the crops would grow and then the next month and a half holding our breath while everyone tried to get their crops in. Rumors of hail here or there would roll through the county like the winds over the prairie grasses and every lightening storm would strike fear into the heart of even the most seasoned farmers lest it start a prairie fire undulating across their land, taking everything they worked for. In winter the cycle would start again with prayers for heavy snowfall.

There were those farmers that were lucky enough to have a few acres in the river valley that were able irrigate their farmlands. This fertile and moisture laden area of the high prairie is perfect for alfalfa, that lovely sweet member of the pea family would fill acres of acres of farmland that would be “hayed” and stacked in bales for winter feed for cattle and horses. The bright green foliage and purple flowers would create a lovely vision in the summer and if it was a really great summer, a farmer could get two and sometimes three cuttings of the alfalfa, which would create great stores for his herd or to be sold to those that had a need for it.

Along the highway’s and gravel roads of these lower river areas grows the cousin of alfalfa, sweet clover. In the afternoons and early evenings the smell of this small fragrant pinkish-white flower would waft over the Milk River Valley, spreading its heady fragrance into every aspect of my life. The seventeen miles between our home and the home of my dad’s twin brother is impregnated in my memory and my senses through this weed, the wild sweet clover.

This smell, this fragrance, this elixir, elicits memories of Sunday dinners, hours running around the farm with my cousins, sitting on the old broken down tractor of my grandfather’s, of county fairs and sleepy rides home.

Just before my Uncle Bob died, he had for lack of a better term, “passed over.” After he came back from his initial view of eternal life, he talked and talked about how beautiful it was and the flowers were amazing and the fragrance was indescribable; and he could not wait to go back. Personally, I think Uncle Bob was standing in a field of sweet clover, and today, I think I know he felt.