A little violet plant surprised me today in the garden. I don’t know how it came to grow here, especially since Southern California is not the most suitable habitat. Violets prefer damp, well-drained ground and the sun-dappled protection of woodlands, none of which I have.

I was reminded of a special time with my mom. Every spring we’d bring willow baskets with handles and go to the stone bridge at Palmer Park in Detroit and fill them with purple and white violets.

When we returned home, my mom and I would fill every vase and glass we could find with the fragrance of these beauties. Sometimes I’d press a few in a book to find at a later date when it was dried and papery but still evoked the faintest perfume.

Since there’s no rational explanation, I’ll just thank my mom for her visit to guide my happy memories of those lovely times we shared.