I grew up on the outskirts of a big city, in one of those towns now absorbed by urban growth, where you could still see some countryside around and shepherds with their sheep a few days a week.
In spring, specifically in early May, the empty lots were filled with colors: yellows, purples, reds, and greens; and the good weather along with the long days and flourishing life invited us to go out.
My mother’s birthday was in the first half of this month. She loved flowers, but they couldn’t be bought at the market store; she preferred wild ones, hand-picked.
On her birthday, and since we were very young, my sister and I woke up early, went out to the empty lot with the first light of day, and spent our time collecting all the flowers we saw. The bouquet had to be big, so wide that we couldn’t hold it with our small hands and also contain all the field flowers. After a couple of hours, we arrived home with red and sticky hands, washed them, prepared breakfast, and woke up my mother with a loud “happy birthday.”
Every year the bouquet became more complicated. The degree of demand grew with our knowledge of flowers: we had to pick different types of yellows, be careful with the blue ones that had hairs that pierced like needles, only the longer-stemmed purple ones, and the daisies cut with scissors, very low down, as they were very tough.
Over time, the yellow flowers began to be called caterpillars and mustards, the red ones poppies, there were countless different thistles: wild borage, chicory, and a lot of names that magically emerged from books of medicinal plants with photos and illustrations. In the flowers, we found flies, butterflies, worms, and beetles; nearby, in the ponds of the empty lot, we caught frogs and toads. Little by little, lizards appeared on the walls, thistle mushrooms, leeks, and cardoons in secret corners, also an apricot tree without a known owner and four abandoned vines for many years.
I discovered that the information contained in the vacant lot was infinite, millions of names, diverse ecosystems, thousands of different things that grew on the ground, and some could be eaten. The collecting instinct surfaced, that of a collector of country experiences who alternated in his youth nights of beer and rock with fresh mountain mornings in the open air.
In the second month of lockdown due to the Covid-19 pandemic, they already allow going out for a walk near home. Peering out the window, I see the yellow, red, and purple colors; the vacant lot has bloomed, and the semi-urban beauty returns to my memories, those that stir my conscience and make me reflect on my mother’s disappointment. They take me back to the moment when my sister and I became two teenagers, when we decided not to go back to the vacant lot to collect wildflowers because we believed we had other more important things to do.
Uncertainty, arrogance, and unawareness at that damn age of change and loss of innocence…
Daniel Agut
| Season 2. Chapter 12 | Flores del descampado |
| Recording date | May 2020 |
| Duration | 2:58 minutes |
| Date of issue | May 29, 2020 |
| Location | Alovera, Guadalajara. España |
| Image and sound | Daniel Agut |
| Edition | Daniel Agut |
| Opusculum | Daniel Agut |
| Music | Daniel Agut |
| Song | Soft colors |
intemperie.home.blog 