I was raised in a very rural part of Indiana, only a few miles from the Ohio river. Our farmhouse sat 1/4 of a mile down a long gravel driveway. To get to school, we had to either walk to the end of the driveway, or many times, in bad weather, our mother would drive us to the end of the driveway to catch the bus. Every spring, when the weather was beautiful and I couldn't wait for school to be over, the walk home down that driveway was pure pleasure. If the field's had been plowed, the smell of newly turned earth and wild onions was overpowering. I remember birdsong and cattle munching. Most of all, I remember the violets that grew along the side of that gravel driveway. And every year, I brought home a fistful of violets for my mom, just because I knew she would like them. She always put them in a small glass vase and sat them on the kitchen table. So here is my latest little painting of some violets to go along with my memories of childhood.