Buttercups
My grandma was a wise woman. Instead of taking family vacations to the huge, bustling cities of Europe, as so many others living in Scotland did, she reserved a cabin the serene countryside of northern England.
Instead of tall buildings, honking cars and shoppers pushing their way through the crowds, the country was filled with tall willows bending in the breezes. Squirrels romped about the protruding roots of ancient oak trees. Sparrows and larks warbled from atop hedgerows and wildflowers in blossom carpeted the meadows as far as the eye could see. Yes, my grandma was a wise woman.
One summer, when I was about five years old, I was invited to spend a week with her at the cottage. As my parents drove me down towards the English border, I gazed out of the window, awestruck. There were multi-colored sheep grazing in every field. Large black cows stood among them, munching away on the thick, peaty grasses. Growing wild along the side of the road were thistles that seemed to have just burst open, erupting into feathery purple flowers. I was familiar with the pain caused by falling carelessly on their prickly stems and leaves.
The rocks and boulders, so familiar to the Scottish landscape, now disappeared. Instead, England welcomed us with its lush, green, rolling hills. Walls built from stones piled neatly on top of each other divided properties of the seemingly wealthy landowners of the area. Sitting in the center of these huge fields were luxurious manors, sturdy, elegant and proud. I asked my mother several times as we drove along, "Mum, does the Queen live there? Is that a castle? Is that person very rich? Do they have big cars?" Patiently, my mother answered each one.
We turned towards the cottage. I began to giggle. I loved being with my grandma, no matter where she was. When we pulled up in front of the door, she came out of the cottage, running to greet us. I threw the car door open and jumped out. I ran into her arms, squeezing her tightly. "Grandma!" I called. My father grabbed my small suitcase from the boot of the car and followed us into the small, whitewashed cottage, or croft, as my grandma called it.
Inside the croft, flames roared in the fireplace. Sparks exploded from the wood as it crackled and split open from the heat. The smell of barley soup simmering on a cast iron stove filled the room, reminding me of how hungry I was. "Would you like some soup, Hen?" she asked. Grandma always called me Hen.
"I’d love some. It smells so good," I answered.
Grandma sat me down at the table, filled a wooden bowl with soup and handed me a Sheffield steel spoon. Hungrily I gobbled my soup down.
My parents, seeing I was distracted, whispered goodbye to my grandma and snuck out the door. I was about half way finished with the soup when I realized I’d been tricked and my parents were gone. Very upset, I jumped up from the table and ran out the front door crying. I ran after the car as it drove down the dirt road.
"Mum, don’t leave me. Come back!" My grandma came after me, grabbed hold of my hand to stop me. She bent down and picked me up and held me as I sobbed, calling for my mother.
"It’ll be all right, Hen. She’ll be back for you in a few days," Grandma said, comfortingly.
The tears flowed for several minutes. My grandma wasn’t sure what to do with me. She stood me back down on the ground, making sure she held my hand tightly so I wouldn’t run away. She tugged at me, beckoning me to come with her. "Come wi’ me lass. I want to show you something." We walked towards the croft.
Grandma stopped in front of a patch of little yellow flowers. She pointed to them. "Those are buttercups."
I stopped crying. They were pretty. "Are they made of butter?" I asked curiously.
She burst out laughing. "No, Hen. They aren’t made of butter, but I know how to tell if you like butter or not." I was quite excited. "Pick one of the flowers," she urged.
I bent down and grabbed a stem with a bright yellow buttercup on it. "Now, hold still," she said. She took the flower from me and rubbed it softly on the skin under my chin. "If it makes a red spot on your chin, that means you like butter. If no red spot appears, then you don’t like butter." My grandma knew that the gentle toxins in the buttercup irritating the skin caused the red spots. I didn’t know that. I believed her.
I jumped up and down, asking over and over again, "Can you see a red spot? Can you see it? Is it red? Please look, Grandma. See if I have a red spot!"
Grandma took my chin in her soft hands and smiled a huge grin. She nodded her head. "Aye, Hen. There’s a red spot."
I cried out with delight. "It’s true! I do love butter!" I jumped into my grandma’s arms and we both laughed. We picked a few more buttercups and walked back to the croft. She put them into a small vase while I finished my barley soup. She brought me a thick slice of bread.
I looked up at her with a smile and asked, "Can I have some butter please?"
She laughed and laughed and so did I.
That week with my grandma was one of the most delightful weeks of my life. Whenever I see buttercups growing in the meadows, I can still feel the red spot under my chin and taste the butter I spread on my bread that day.
© 2002 by Margo Fallis