When I was a kid in North Dakota, I knew spring had really arrived when the substantial lilacs in our yard bloomed. That far north, the lilac bloom came in May some years and in June others. This year, at my farm in Kansas, the lilac bloom started the night before last – I noticed that familiar scent when passing my only lilac bush on the way in from feeding the lambs. This morning, about half of the clustered flower buds had burst. I figure it will be another day or so before the lilacs bloom full force – I hope the predicted rain tomorrow doesn’t destroy the flowers.

My favorite lilacs are all shrubs in the genus Syringa that belong to the species vulagaris – the plain old ordinary common lilac. I so enjoy this deciduous plant because it thrives in the same harsh environments of my childhood and adolescence where it shaded me in summer, its arching under story provided endless opportunity for creating secret forts, and its beautiful flowers offered springtime cheer. My Osage County farm has but a single mature lilac hedge that hides the propane tank from view. I’ve transplanted a number of suckers but they have not yet matured.

Non-hybrid common lilacs bloom in a variety of colors. Some are deep lavender, others are purplish pink and still others are white. The shrub as we know it originated in what is now Eastern Europe and has been the subject of much cultivation and hybridization in the Western world since the mid 1500s. These plants have history, and in spite of their susceptibility to mildew in the late summer and fall, gardeners and landscapers the world over continue to make a go of growing them – especially in colder regions. I don’t think I could ever move much further south than central Kansas because common lilacs bloom only after a period of real winter.

Lilacs bloom to announce spring to my way of thinking. And spring just wouldn’t seem real without the sight and scent of lilacs.

The lilacs are beginning to open here – just in time for Mother’s Day. Lilacs always remind me of Mother’s Day – one in particular when I was about six years old and gave my Mom a simple, hand-picked bouquet. My friend and I decided flowers were the perfect Mother’s Day gift. Six-year-olds don’t pick up the phone and call a florist to order a bouquet; they pick their own. And we did … from every garden from one end of the street to the other. Daffodils, tulips, and other flowers I can’t recall, but I remember the lilacs – lots and lots of lilacs; I can almost smell their heady perfume even now.

I also recall Mom giving me a big hug when I presented this magnificent gift to her, finding a vase large enough to fit the huge the bouquet, then using the opportunity to teach me one of life’s important lessons: no matter how good the intentions, you do not take what is not yours, and do not borrow without asking first. With my small hand wrapped in hers, we visited every house where I had picked flowers. As I hid behind her, Mom explained to our neighbors that she’d received a wonderful gift courtesy of her daughter ... and of their gardens. She led by example; she apologized first for me picking their flowers without asking. Then it was my turn to peek from behind the folds of her dress where I was hiding, and say I was sorry.

I’ve repeated this story to my daughters when they were about the age I was way back then as we’ve walked down the street, thwarting their desire to pick a flower or two from a garden along the sidewalk. Flowers are sometimes so tempting. Instead they bring me flowers pulled from my garden ... sometimes, in Shannon’s case, with the roots still attached. This spring, tiny bouquets of sweetly-scented violets that last about as long as the flowers are small, line the windowsill. A bouquet of daffodils has been on the kitchen table since the flowers first started to open a few weeks ago; it’s freshened and replenished often by Shannon as one variety fades, and another opens.

I talked with Mom on the phone earlier this week. We laughed about a lot of things; my recounting of the Mother’s Day bouquet story was one of them. “Wow,” she said, “I’m amazed you remember that; you were so little at the time.” It was a lesson taught with love, and one that is still as vivid in my memory as is the scent of that armload of lilacs.

Mom turns eighty-one this year; as it has so many times in the past, this year her birthday falls on Mother’s Day. I always have told her it means she’s a doubly special Mom. She’s taught me so many things over the years; I wish she lived close enough for me to just pop in, give her a big hug, and tell her thanks. I’d bring bouquets of flowers snipped from my gardens. No lilacs; even where I live now, those belong to the neighbors.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

And Happy Mother’s Day to you, and all the other mothers out there.

Bottom photo: iStockphoto.com/Denise Torres