Standing in the mud at the tulip farm

The tulip farm was a good 40 minutes south of Portland. We rode all the way with the windshield wipers on fast. Earlier my son and had I walked up to New Seasons, a small grocery, and asked a manager for advice. He directed us to the seasonal aisle. I knew they had to be there: plastic ponchos in little plastic envelopes the size of party invitations.

I was surprised to see the farm emerging not so much as a farm but a small amusement park. Just for the record, I hate, have always hated, forced fun. But stepping out into the muddy parking lot and making my way to the gift shop -- you had to enter through the shop--I could see all the vendors and heavily hawked fun was optional. I eschewed the many ways to spend money, not because I was on a budget (God knows I can be quite the spendthrift). I was looking for peacefulness and it was the space inside the weather, inside the untented area looking out that made me pause before meandering in the fields.

I stood looking out. The fields were in rows of course and the colors varied and the varieties I suppose. I don't know much about tulips except what I'd read somewhere; that when you put them in a vase you should only put an inch or so of water because the tulips tend to drink too much water and flop over. God knows why I remember this, but I wondered about them, worried about them in a motherly way, with this onslaught of rain. Still, even though I was getting wetter and wetter I enjoyed walking along the rows and trying not to step into the deep rivulets. It was peaceful.

I saw two men who appeared to be waiting as if for a bus, just standing with their umbrellas and smiling, as if thinking of how grateful they were to be there, standing quietly in the rain. I supposed they were waiting for their kids or girlfriends. With the floral backdrop ranging from yellow to purple there was something about these two men, patiently standing in the mud, that gave me hope that people were not quite as doomed as I'd begun to think. They had such a quiet composure and happiness about them. I thought I was happy until I saw them, but I was waiting for my grown kids and perhaps the rain had soaked through enough for me to wonder if there was a vendor who sold Irish coffee. They, in their stalwart and kindly way, helped me shrug off any thoughts but the beauty of being there. I was grateful for that day of being drenched, and partly because of them.