Slightly More Happens - May Mischief

all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now.

“Hi, I'm Katherine Nikolai, and if you're looking for something gentle to listen to,”

that isn't news or true crime or self-improvement, I made this for you. Stories from the village of Nothing Much is like easy listening, but for fiction, cozy, warm, calm stories about ordinary moments that feel a little magical. They're grounding, soothing, and quietly uplifting, without being cheesy, relaxing, without putting you to sleep, and just dreamy enough to remind you that they're still sweetness in everyday life. Perfect for your commute while you're tidying up,

or when you want a little escape, that feels simple and good. Search for stories from the village of Nothing Much, wherever you listen. This longer episode is made possible by our sponsors. You'll hear a few ads at the beginning, and then we will settle in together. When I started building this show and my shop, it really felt like I had to figure everything out

“on my own, and there are so many pieces, it can get overwhelming fast. That's why having the right”

tools matter, and for a lot of businesses, that partner is Shopify. Shopify helps you run everything in one place, from your storefront to payments to getting your work out into the world, without needing a whole team behind you. And as you grow, it's there for the bigger pieces, too, like inventory, shipping, and support when you need it. Start your business today with the industry's best business partner, Shopify. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com/nothingmudge.

Go to Shopify.com/nothingmudge. That's Shopify.com/nothingmudge. Welcome to a special, longer episode of bedtime stories for everyone, in which slightly more happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio-engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to elephant havens. They protect, preserve, and hand-rear

young African elephant orphans. Learn more about them in our show notes. Many of you have asked for longer episodes, and we are delivering. Once a month we'll give you a two to three story episode here on the free feed, and a five to six story episode over on our premium feed. In fact, on premium, we regularly publish episodes that are over nine hours long,

and we're always adding more. So if that sounds helpful or joyful to you, you can subscribe

for about 10 cents a day. Learn more at nothingmudge happens.com. Just as with our regular episodes, these stories are simply a soft place to occupy your mind,

“to keep it steady, and allow you to drift off. All you need to do is listen.”

I'll tell the stories twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to just start them over. Our stories tonight feature a fan favorite character who has been known to get up to some gentle, floral-related trouble. We'll come along for a lilac-hiced in the countryside.

Then spend some time restoring in old house, and finally visiting the farmers market for a bit

of community service. There are days when I need my mind to be clear and steady, and I'm not

Major Sunshine Brain Edge combines hand-harvested Yerba Mate, with powerful new tropics to support

“focus, memory, and cognitive performance without the crash. It enhances focus, and clarity,”

with new tropic botanicals that help you concentrate in stay-sharp. It supports memory and learning, with ingredients like Bacopa and Ginko to promote recall and mental stamina, and deliver smooth, sustained energy from wild harvested Yerba Mate without the jitters or crash. Don't fight through feeling foggy and lehargic. Ignite your mental performance with Brain Edge,

Nature Sunshine is offering 20% off your first order, plus free shipping, go to naturesonshine.com

“and use code nothing much at checkout. That's code nothing much at naturesonshine.com.”

Now, settle in, be at ease, the day was, what it was, and now we are here. Nothing to do, no plans to make, or hold on to, just deep, restorative sleep. Take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth,

nice, one more, breathe in, and out, good, the lilac thief. There are only a few days of the spring.

When you can step out of the door and smell them on every passing breeze, so bright and sweet, that there's nothing to do with plancher feed, and take slow deep breaths to try to store their

“scent deep inside you for another year. The lilacs. I remember as a child,”

pressing my face into their soft blooms, due coming away on my cheeks. I'm wondering how something could smell like that, and look like that, and grow so abundantly, and be allowed. It seemed too good, too perfectly aligned with what was pleasing. To just occur naturally. But I guess there is a catch with lilacs. They only bloom once a year, and they don't last long.

In fact, they're best enjoyed on the tree. When you cut them and bring them inside, they soon wilt and dry up on their sweet smell fades. Still, I couldn't out myself. I would try to be surrounded by them, for as long as possible each spring. And that meant taking matters into my own hands, and possibly some very gentle trespassing. You see, I am a lilac thief. I don't strike it random. My crimes aren't hand-fisted,

or even much noticed. I'm a subtle thief. I plan when and where, and make my getaway before anyone is the wiser. When I walk my neighborhood, I might casually reach up for a stray blossom creeping through the slats of a fence, and just as casually tuck it into the flag of a male box for someone to find later. But I knew better than to pull a real heist, so close to him. For that I packed a kit into my car. Wicker basket, garden gloves,

twine, and a small set of pruning shears. I dressed inconspicuously and drove out into the countryside.

I'd case the joint years ago, and found the house reliably empty,

“and the yard reliably full of lilac trees. I parked my car on the edge of the road to give”

myself a bit of plausible deniability. After all, perhaps I had just had a spot of car trouble, and was letting an overheated engine cool down, and had stopped to smell the roses as it were. I chuckled to myself, as I took my kit from the backseat, master criminal that I was, and made my way down the lawn and dusty drive that led to the old house.

I stood with the sun on my face for a few moments, and let my imagination spin a story,

about who might have lived here. I thought of kids running through the vegetable patch,

“a pack of family dogs racing with them, sparklers on the fourth of July,”

a kitchen with rose, a freshly canned pickles laid out on cotton towels, a tree planted, to mark a special day, a hundred years ago, that grew to the one I looked at now.

It had a large wrap around porch, and though the stairs had a few missing boards,

and the paint was jipped and faded. I could tell it had been a beloved place in its time. I followed my nose to the large row of lilacs, and put on my gloves, and opened my shears.

“The blossoms were so full and heavy, but there's stems struggle to stay upright.”

And I sent my basket down, and started to relieve them of their burden. I took time to notice each small bloom, drank deep the smell, and patiently waited for bees to shift from one flower to another. I filled my basket till it nearly overflowed, and still the bushes seemed as full as they had when I started. I kicked my way back down the drive, and with the seraptitious look up and down the road,

I smuggled my goods back into the car, and made my getaway. All that stealing had made me thirsty, and I was craving a cold brew coffee from a little cafe near my house. I decided to bring my basket with me, and found a seed at a tiny table outside. I ordered my iced coffee with a bit of coconut milk, and sat my basket on the seat beside me. I picked through the stems, making small bouquets, and tying them up with twine.

Some were for me, and some I'd leave on the doorsteps of friends. Did you steal those lilacs? Asked a voice from behind me. I turned to see an older man, with gray hair, and bright eyes, looking at me over his cup of coffee. What lilacs? I asked innocently.

He winked at me, and touched his finger to the side of his nose. "Takes one to no one," he said. "I laughed out loud, and passed him over a bundle of flowers." He pressed them to his face, and took a deep breath in, and let it out in a contented sigh. We chatted for a few minutes about some of our favorite spots. He told me about a place by the highway, when I told him about a tree behind the library.

among friends and strangers, on my way back home.

“The lilac grower. One day, your young, driving through the countryside,”

surruptitiously swiping stems of lilacs from overgrown shrubs on abandoned farms, without a care in the world. From the next day, here a bit older. You've bought one of those abandoned farms yourself, and you're growing enough lilacs for the whole county. Still, without a care in the world.

“It's true. It's all true. I have been a lilac devotee since I was a teenager.”

First swept up in the romance of how beautiful and sweetly scented and short-lived these flowers are.

And each spring, I found myself venturing out, discreetly, but determinately, to scavenge enough stems to fill a few vases. Along the way, I'd not only found some very good spots to snip, where no one would miss them.

I'd met a few other lilac thieves, and we'd shared our intel, and love for the flowers.

Then, one may day, I'd been out on a caper, at an old farmhouse that had been long ago abandoned. I'd just returned to my car on the dirt road beside the driveway, and was about to tuck a full basket of lilacs and my pruning shears into the trunk. When another car pulled up beside me, the jig was up. I'd been caught, not red-handed, but sort of green-thumbed, I thought. A woman with silver hair bundled up in a scarf,

and a sparkle in her eyes, stepped out of her car, and crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head to one side in a question. I took the basket, and the shears, childishly behind my back, and said, "Mmm, engine got overheated." We stared at each other for a beat, then both broke out in laughter. She walked over to admire the flowers, and lifted a branch of the lilacs to her face,

“and took a deep breath of the scent. There's nothing like them. Is there?”

I agreed, but there wasn't. And we got to talking. It turned out that she had grown up in this old farmhouse, and she invited me to walk through the art with her. I apologized for thieving their lilacs, which she waved away, saying she was glad someone was getting some enjoyment from them. She hadn't seen the old place in decades, and we stopped here and there,

She pointed to a window, high up on one side. That had been her room.

“In the backyard, we found remnants of a close line. The post still standing,”

but the cotton cord long ago dissolved by rain and weather, and she told me about hanging sheets out in the sun. Their vegetable garden, while overgrown,

and no longer fitting within its old borders, had, in some places,

replanted itself. There were tomato plants, and a pumpkin vine growing.

“And we both imagined the deer and squirrels, who must feast here each summer.”

The house had passed her, but she lived far away now. I'd only driven back to see it one more time before arranging for it to be put up for sale. Unless she said, turning to me, you might know of someone who'd be interested. Her eyes sparkle again, and I found myself dumbstruck. By a thought I hadn't entertained before.

“I'd been coming to this old house for years,”

admiring the wide front porch and tall trees. In some ways, I already thought of myself as a caretaker. I seemed to be the only one who ever walked the property.

And I'd always harbored a fear that one day it would be sold and torn down.

Just then, I didn't know how I would do it. But I was sure I would make this place my home. After that day, there had been many more conversations between the two of us. Some were history lessons, passing on the stories of the house and the people who live there. We both cared about such things, and some were negotiations.

The house needed a good deal of work. And in the end, we were able to agree on a price and a few weeks later, it was mine. When the day came, I stood in the front yard with the keys in my hand, smiling up at the house. I no longer parked on the road, but proudly drove right up the cracked drive. The lilacs had faded by then. High summer was upon us, and the tall trees

made a shady canopy. The kept the house cool. I'd walked from room to room, overwhelmed at the feeling of having so much to myself. So much to make into,

The roof was repaired, a new kitchen fitted in, and the rotten boards torn out on the front porch,

“to be replaced with sweet smelling new ones. I spent one long summer painting”

everything inside and out, finding paint in my hair, and on every piece of clothing I owned,

till I finally finished. The gardens had been edged and cleared and replanted.

The clothesline was re-hung, and I added a patio beside it, where I could sit and watch the hummingbirds in the morning. Along with all of this, I added something I'd envisaged that first day,

“when I'd been caught with my full basket, and that was more lilacs.”

After all, they had brought me here to my home, and I wanted to share them.

We planted a long row of lilac trees and bushes, different colors and varieties, all along the road. And within a few years, they had grown to be thick and hardy, and to produce a sea of flowers each spring. Along the line of lilacs, a neighbor had helped me build a small stand,

like the kind you might buy corn or tomatoes at in the summer.

And I stocked it with old baskets, and clothsax, a few pairs of shears, and gardening gloves, across the front, I'd added a sign that I'd painted by hand, kneeling on an old sheet spread out in the grass. It said, "Free lilacs," gentle trespassers will not be prosecuted, and on the warm days of spring, when the lilacs were blooming, folks came. The word had gotten out.

I'd spot a row of cars parked along the street, when I'd step out with a cup of coffee and hand,

“to chat with those who had come together some beauty, from a place that had once been a secret.”

The lilac booth. My favorite time of year was here. The short weeks at the end of April, and through the beginning of May, when a step outside my back door would deliver me a long fall of the sweetest smelling air these acres held, and that's saying something, because life out here, on the edge of the woods, near a creek where bull frogs jug around, and foxes sleep among the ferns.

Where stars stand out brightly against the midnight sky. His already pretty sweet. It's strange how a casual left turn, down a dirt road, many years ago,

thieving sense of the word. Listen, I return my grocery cart to the corral. I don't open other

“people's mail, and I'm more likely to leave a penny than take one. But there is one area of my life”

where I have been known to be downright criminal. I am a lilac thief, or at least I was, when I came to that crossroads, all those years ago, and turned.

If you've ever leaned into a bouquet of lilac blossoms, and breathed in the incredible scent of

them, you might understand what drove me to pack a pair of garden gloves,

“some snipers, and a basket, into the back of my getaway car, been sneak out into the country.”

I had a few favorite spots I'd already hit that day. There was a tree behind the library, a spot beside the highway, and a bush that grew through a fence near my house, where I could snag a few blooms. But I wanted more. Lilacs only bloom once a year, and the window was short, so I'd driven further out of town, taken random turns, with no plan in mind.

“I remember it was early enough in the spring, that sunlight still felt like a novelty,”

and I'd had to fumble around in my glovebox for some sunglasses. I'd rolled my windows down, and thrust my arm into the breeze, my drove past and old abandoned farmhouse, and saw a whole row of lilac trees, lining one side of the yard. My craneed my neck as I passed, trying to spot signs of life. But now, the house clearly hadn't had a resident,

in ages. A tree was growing up through part of the front porch, and the driveway was full of tumbleweeds, and fallen branches. But in the same way you can look into a person's eyes,

and fall in love at first sight, something about the house called out to me,

as if I'd been there before, as if I'd finally come home. And after that first timid step onto the drive, the first cautious cutting of a lilac stem, I came back many times, not just together flowers, but to check on the house. I wanted to see it in different seasons, to watch the leaves fall from its ancient popular trees, and winter I wanted to see how the snow lay on the roof.

and it had just by a bit, and the sound of the rushing water was louder than I'd ever heard it.

“Then, a couple lilac seasons back, I was out with my basket,”

when I finally bumped into someone, a kind older woman, with her hair tied in a scarf,

and the top down on her car. I'd been caught, purple handed, and she chuckled from the drive, red faced, I owned up to my fevery, and apologized. But she insisted, it made her happy, to know the blooms weren't going to waste. She'd inherited the old place, and couldn't use it

“herself. Did I know of anyone who might be interested in buying?”

My smile, as I thought about that day now, and had been a long road, but the house had come back to life.

Renaissance and repairs, fresh plaster and paint. I stood in my garden clogs, in the early morning, outside in the yard, and looked up at the window of my bedroom. It was pushed up to let in the fresh air, and the curtain was dancing in the breeze.

“My flexed my hand, switching the snipers to the other one, and stretching out my fingers.”

I'd been clipping for a while, and still had a ways to go. The lilacs were blooming all around my

little property. Since moving in, I'd planted even more bushes and trees. I had the classic pale purple flowers. The ones you most likely think of when you hear the word lilac, but also white lilacs, wine colored, variegated, deep purple, edged in white, blue, and even yellow lilacs. That variety was called Primrose, and was one of my favorites. Several large buckets sat on the back deck, already full of clipped blooms, but I wanted

to fill more for this latest lilac project. My gone from thief to grower, even adding signs along the front drive, inviting others to stop and pick some for themselves. And now I was bringing the lilacs to the people, and I was excited. I'd like to having folks stop by to smell the flowers, but I wanted to share them with even more people. A flower that blooms only once a year, and then just for a week or two,

teaches you that time is precious, but things must be enjoyed or lost.

with everyone we could. I said we, because thankfully, I had helped for the endeavor.

“The lilac booth was a fundraiser for a park project in the village.”

The money raised would help plant milkweed and buy sand for puddling spaces for monarch butterflies during migration.

It was for the park across from the elementary school. A place I went frequently.

When I saw a pamphlet about their expansion project, the whole idea had come together.

“Volunteers were helping me cut and prepare the lilacs and sell them at the market today.”

They were here among the trees with me now. The goal was for each person to pick three buckets worth.

Then we'd load up the van and head to the booth before it opened in the late morning.

We collected scats of donated faces from friends and family, and we'd make bouquets of the different colored blooms to entice market gowers. My sniped another branch, was several clumps of rosy, huge flowers, and dew fell from the petals and leaves above me, giving me a brief shower. I chuckled, and I thought of how far I'd come from those days,

riding around town, swiping stems, and how a random turn on a country road can change your life. The lilac thief, there are only a few days of the spring. When you can step out of the door and smell them on every passing breeze. So bright and sweet, but there's nothing to do, but plant your feet and take slow deep breaths. To try to store their scent deep inside for another year, the lilacs.

“I remember, as a child, pressing my face into their soft blooms,”

dew coming away on my cheeks, and wondering how something could smell like that, and look like that, and grow so abundantly, and be allowed. It seemed too good, too perfectly aligned with what was pleasing, to just occur naturally, but I guess there is a catch with lilacs. They only bloom once a year, and they don't last long.

In fact, they're best enjoyed on the tree when you cut them down and bring them inside. They soon wilt, and dry up, and their sweet smell fades.

For as long as possible, each spring, and that meant taking matters into my own hands,

“and possibly some very gentle trespassing. You see, I am a lilac thief.”

I don't strike at random. My crimes aren't hamphisted or even much noticed. I'm a subtle thief. I plan when and where, and make my getaway before anyone is the wiser. When I walk my neighborhood, I might casually reach up for a stray blossom,

creeping through the slats of a fence, and just as casually, tuck it into the flag of a male box,

for someone to find later. But I know better than to pull a real heist, so close to home. For that, I packed a kit into my car.

“We car basket, garden gloves, twine, and a small set of pruning shears.”

I dressed in a conspicuously, and drove out into the countryside.

There was an old farmhouse, long abandoned.

On a dirt road that I knew well, I'd case the joint years ago, and found the house reliably empty, and the yard reliably full of lilac trees. I parked my car on the edge of the road to give myself a bit of plausible deniability.

“After all, perhaps I just had a spot of car trouble.”

And was letting an overheated engine cool down. And had stopped to smell the roses, as it were. I took all to myself, as I took my kit from the backseat, master criminal that I was, and made my way down the long and dusty drive that led to the house. I stood with the sun on my face for a few moments, and let my imagination spin a story

about who might have lived here. I thought of kids running through the vegetable patch, a pack of family dogs racing with them, sparklers on the 4th of July, a kitchen with rows of freshly canned pickles laid out on cotton towels, a tree planted to mark a special day, a hundred years ago, that grew to the one I looked at now.

The house had a large wrap around porch, and although the stairs had a few missing boards, and the paint was chipped and faded. I could tell, it had been a beloved place in its time. I followed my nose to the large row of lilacs, and put my gloves on and opened my shears. The blossoms were so full and heavy, and their stems struggled to stay upright. I set my basket down, and started to relieve them of their burden.

And I took time to notice each small bloom,

I filled my basket till it nearly overflowed, and still the bushes seemed as full as they had when I

“started. I kicked my way back down the drive, and with a syrup to just look up and down the road.”

I smuggled my goods back into the car, and made my getaway. All that stealing had made me thirsty, and I was craving a cold brew coffee from a little cafe near my house. I decided to bring my basket with me, and found a seat at a tiny table outside.

I ordered my iced coffee, with a bit of coconut milk, and set my basket on the seat beside me.

I picked through the stems, making small bouquets, and tying them up with a twine. Some were for me, and some I'd leave on the doorsteps of friends.

“Did you steal those lilacs, past a voice from behind me?”

I turned to see an older man, with gray hair, and bright eyes, looking at me over his cup of coffee. What lilacs, I asked innocently. He winked at me, and touched his finger to the side of his nose. "Takes one to no one," he said. I laughed out loud, passed him over a bundle of flowers.

“He pressed them to his face, and took a deep breath in.”

And let it out, and I contented sigh. We chatted for a few minutes, about some of our favorite spots. He told me about a place by the highway. I told him about the tree behind the library. He lifted the bouquet to thank me.

And I carried my basket out to divvy up the rest of my plunder, among friends, and strangers. On my way back home, the lilac grower. One day, you're young, driving through the countryside. Sureptishously, swiping stems of lilacs, from overgrown shrubs, on abandoned farms, without a care in the world.

And the next day, you're a bit older. You've bought one of those abandoned farms yourself. And you're growing enough lilacs for the whole county. Still, without a care in the world. It's true. It's all true.

I have been a lilac devotee since I was a teenager.

First swept up into the romance of how beautiful and sweetly scented and short lived these flowers are.

And each spring, I found myself venturing out discreetly, but determinedly,

Along the way, I'd found not only some very good spots to snip away,

“where no one would miss them. I'd also met other lilac thieves,”

and we'd shared our intel, and love for the flowers. Then, one made a, I'd been out on a paper, at an old farmhouse. That had long ago been abandoned. I'd just returned to my car on the dirt road beside the driveway.

And was about to tuck a full basket of lilacs and my pruning shears into the trunk.

When another car pulled up beside me, the jig was up. I'd been caught. Not red handed, but sort of green-thumbed, I thought.

“A woman with silver hair bundled up in a scarf,”

and a sparkle in her eyes, stepped out of her car, and crossed her arms over her chest. Tilting her head to one side, and a question.

I talked to the basket and shears,

"childishly" behind my back, and said, "Mengen got overheated." We stared at each other for a beat, then both broke out in laughter. She walked over to admire the flowers, and lifted a branch of the lilacs to her face, and took a deep breath of the scent. There's nothing like them, is there?

I agreed that there wasn't. And we got to talking.

“I turned out that she had grown up in this old farmhouse,”

and she invited me to walk through the yard with her. I apologized for leaving their lilacs, which she waved away, saying she was glad someone was getting some enjoyment from them. She hadn't seen the old place in decades, and we stopped here and there,

as she got caught up in memories, and told me stories about her family. She pointed to a window high up on one side. That had been her room. In the yard, we found the remnants of a closed line.

The post still standing. But the cotton cord long ago dissolved by rain and weather. And she told me about hanging sheets out in the sun. Their vegetable garden, while overgrown, a no longer fitting within its old borders,

had, in some places, replanted itself. There were tomato plants on a pumpkin vine growing. And we both imagined the deer and squirrels who must feast here each summer.

Had only driven back to see it one more time,

“before arranging for it to be put up for sale.”

Unless she said, turning to me, you might know if someone would be interested. Her eyes sparkle again. And I found myself dumb-struck by a thought. I hadn't entertained before.

I'd been coming to this old house for years. Admiring the wide front porch and tall trees. In some ways, I already thought of myself as its caretaker. I seemed to be the only one

who ever walked the property.

And I'd always harbor to fear.

“That one day, it would be sold and torn down.”

Just then, I didn't know how I would do it, but I was sure this would be my home. After that day, there had been many more conversations between the two of us. Some were history lessons,

passing on the stories of the house, and the people who'd lived there. We both cared about such things, and some were negotiations. The house needed a good deal of work.

“And in the end, we were able to agree on a price”

and a few weeks later, it was mine. When the day came, I stood in the front yard with the keys in my hand, smiling up at the house. I no longer parked on the road,

but proudly drove right up the cracked drive. The lielocks had faded by then. High summer was upon us, and the tall trees made a shady canopy that kept the house cool.

I'd walked from room to room, overwhelmed at the feeling of having so much to myself, so much to make into whatever I wanted. The next few years had brought lots of hard work and the roof was repaired.

A new kitchen fitted in, and the rotten boards torn out from the front porch, to be replaced with sweets smelling new ones. I spent one long summer painting everything inside and out,

finding paint in my hair, run on every piece of clothing I owned,

till I'd finally finished.

The gardens had been edged and cleared and replanted. The clothesline was re-hung, and I added a patio beside it. Or I could sit and watch the hummingbirds in the morning.

I added something I'd envisaged that first day.

“When I'd first been caught with my full basket,”

and that was more lilacs. After all, they had brought me here to my home, and I wanted to share them. I planted a long row of lilac trees and bushes, different colors and varieties, all along the road,

and within a few years, they had grown to be thick and hardy,

and to produce a sea of flowers each spring.

Along the line of lilacs,

“a neighbor had helped me build a small stand,”

like the kind you might buy corn or tomatoes at in the summer. And I stocked it with old baskets, and clothsax, a few pairs of shears and gardening gloves, across the front, I'd added a sign that I'd painted by hand, kneeling on an old sheet, spread out in the grass.

It said, "Free lilacs,

gentle trespassers will not be prosecuted."

And on the warm days of spring, when the lilacs were blooming, folks came, the word had gotten out. I'd spot a row of cars parked along the street, and might step out with a cup of coffee in hand,

to chat with those who had come to gather some beauty,

“from a place that had once been a secret.”

The lilac booth, my favorite time of year was here. The short weeks at the end of April, and through the beginning of May, when I step outside my back door,

would deliver me a long fall of the sweetest smelling air these acres held, and that's saying something, because life out here, on the edge of the woods, near a creek where bull frogs,

juggle rum, and foxes sleep among the ferns, where the stars stand out brightly, against the midnight sky, was already pretty sweet. It's strange how a casual left turn

down a dirt road, many years ago, had led me to this new life. I'd been out on a springtime paper, and I do mean that in the leaving sense of the word, listen, I return my grocery cart to the corral.

I don't open other people's mail, and I'm more likely to leave a penny than take one.

to be downright criminal.

I am a lilac thief, or at least I was, when I came to that crossroads, all those years ago, and turned,

“and if you've ever leaned into a bouquet”

of lilac blossoms,

and breathed in the incredible scent of them,

you might understand what drove me, the pack of pair of garden gloves, some snipers, and a basket, into the back of my getaway car,

and sneak out into the country, and I had a few favorite spots. I'd already hit that day. There was the tree behind the library, a spot beside the highway,

and a bush that grew through a fence near my house, where I could snag a few balloons, but I wanted more. Lilacs only bloom once a year, and the window is short,

so I driven further out of town, taking random turns with no plan in mind.

“I remember it was early enough in the spring,”

that bright sunlight still felt like a novelty, and I'd had to fumble around in my glove box for some sunglasses. I'd rolled the windows down, and thrust my arm into the breeze.

My drove past an old abandoned farmhouse, and saw a whole row of lilac trees, lining one side of the yard. My craneed my neck as I passed, trying to spot signs of life,

but no,

“the house clearly hadn't had a resident in ages.”

A tree was growing up through part of the front porch, and the driveway was full of tumbleweeds and fallen branches. But in the same way that you can look into a person's eyes,

and fall in love at first sight,

something about the house called out to me, as if I'd been there before, as if I'd finally come home. And after that first timid step onto the drive, the first cautious cutting of a lilac stem,

I came back many times,

but to check on the house,

“I wanted to see it in different seasons,”

to watch the leaves fall from its ancient poplar trees, and winter, I wanted to see how the snow lay on the roof, and once, after a heavy rain, I came to see if the creek had risen over its banks. It had just by a bit,

and the sound of the rushing water was louder than I'd ever heard it. Then a couple lilac seasons back, I was out with my basket,

when I finally bumped into someone,

a kind older woman, with her hair tied in a scarf, and the top down on her car.

“She spotted me with an arm full of flowers.”

I'd been caught, purple handed, and she chuckled from the drive, red faced, I owned up to my fevery and apologized, but she insisted, it made her happy to know the blooms weren't going to waste.

She'd inherited the place, and couldn't use it.

Did I know of anyone who might be interested, in buying? I smiled, as I thought about that day now. It had been a long road, but the house had come back to life,

renovations and repairs, fresh plaster and paint, my stood in my garden clogs, in the early morning, outside in the yard,

“and looked up at the window of my bedroom.”

It was pushed up to let in the fresh air, when the curtain was dancing in the breeze, I flexed my hand, switching the snipers to the other one, and stretching out my fingers.

I'd been clipping for a while, and still had ways to go. The lilacs were blooming, all around my little property. Since moving in,

I planted even more bushes and trees. I had the classic pale purple flowers. The ones you most likely think of when you hear the word lilac. But also white lilacs,

wine colored, variegated, deep purple, edged and white, and even yellow lilacs. That variety was called Primrose, and was one of my favorites. Several large buckets sat on the back deck,

already full of clipped blooms. But I wanted to fill a few more for this latest lilac project. I'd gone from thief to grower,

inviting others to stop.

And pick some for themselves.

“Now, I was bringing the lilacs to the people,”

and I was excited. I liked having folks stop by to smell the lilacs. But I wanted to share them with even more people, a flower that blooms only once a year,

and then just for a week or two,

teaches you that time is precious. That things must be enjoyed or lost.

“So I booked a booth at the farmers market for the day,”

and we'd be spreading the love of lilacs with everyone we could.

I said we, because thankfully,

I had help for this endeavor. The lilac booth was a fundraiser for a park project in the village. The money raised would help plant milkweed and buy sand

“for puddling spaces for monarch butterflies during migration.”

It was for the park across from the elementary school. A place I went frequently. When I saw a pamphlet about their expansion project, the whole idea had come together. Volunteers were helping me cut and prepare the lilacs

and to sell them at the market today. They were here among the trees with me now. The goal was for each person to pick three buckets worth, and we'd load up the van and head to the booth before it opened in the late morning.

We'd collected scads of donated faces from friends and family. And we'd make bouquets of the different colored blooms to entice market goers. I snipped another long branch with several clumps of rosy, huge flowers and do fell from the puddles and leaves above me.

Giving me a brief shower. My chuckled and thought of how far I'd come from those days, riding around town, swiping stems, and now a random turn on a country road. Sweet dreams!