Pasque Flowers

Pasque flowers on SD prairie hill by LAn

It is a rite of Spring for my Mom, and I would join her whenever I was home at that time of year.  We would walk down the field road, climb through the barbed wire fence, cross the dirt bridge, and follow the cow path around to a hill that faced the southwest.  In among the rocks and newly growing prairie grass was the prize we were looking for–the Pasque flower!  After the long, cold winters, there was a stirring pleasure in seeing the first blooms of spring.  This chunk of land–part of my Grandfather Nels’ farm–was virgin native prairie.  It had never been plowed–the rocks, the grass, and the prairie flowers have been there for centuries.  No man planted them–they were just there.

The Pasque flower is the State flower of South Dakota.  It is sometimes called the May Day flower since it often blooms around that time.  Other names include prairie crocus, wind flower, Easter flower (pasque is Old French for Easter), or meadow anemone.  Long silky hairs cover the leaves and flower stalks, helping to insulate them in the chilly spring weather.  The flower is lavender colored and delicate.  Once the petals fall off, the seed head is wispy and feathery.

Pasque flower seed heads by LAn

The Pasque flowers or Mayflowers, as my Mom calls them, are marvelous plants defiantly persevering the cold, snowy springs and relentless winds that sweep across the prairie.  Yet their petals are delicate in color and constitution.   Chris planted a trio of Pasque flowers in our no-mow grass last year, and one of the silvery, fuzzy plants that pushed its way up unveiled its flower on May 2nd.  I was excited and so pleased to see it!

It connects me to the prairie, to my Grandpa and Mom, and to everything it represents.  I believe the Pasque flower embodies a generational and cultural hope in the resurrection of Spring life, of new crops and calves, of gratitude for making it through a tough winter, and of new beginnings.  My stoic Swedish grandfather showed these flowers on the hill to my mother who showed them to me.  Nature does the talking.  And quietly, we learn to listen.