There is never a time that I can't remember picking violets. First, for my mother, thrusting a grubby fistful of wilting indigo toward her. Now I pick them for medicinal reasons, or just out of habit. It was habit that had me crawling around a neighbor's yard in disbelief. You see, I'd finally spied the freckled variety of the common blue violet. How I'd managed to go over half a century and never encounter one is a testament to their rarity. And for whatever reason, the neighbor's yard is richly peppered with them. I asked if I could photograph them, pick a few, and he, not appreciating this 'weed' growing in his grass, first wanted me to photograph the flowers he had planted along his garage - which I did, what choice did I have? That at least freed me to study the freckled violets with their white petals brilliantly splashed with purple. There's always something new to discover, no matter how many times you've done the very same thing, there's always more.
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