When I was seven, my parents built a house in the country that was perched on a hill surrounded by three acres of sturdy old oak trees. Being a city lover, I found little appreciation in my new "country life," characterized by solitude and the absence of fellow playmates. But, my view gradually changed. I began to look forward to the changing seasons, particularly spring, that marked their influences on the land. Budding wildflowers began to paint the green fields surrounding my house in March. Once the flowers had reached their peak, I would journey out on a warm Sunday afternoon with a big empty basket and an enthusiastic heart. The unique features that characterized each wildflower enamored me. I would fill my basket first with the Indian paintbrush because they were the most abundant, thereby the least challenging to find. Next, I would venture to find the more obscure wildflowers hidden amidst the tall weeds. Once my treasures were found, I wallowed in their glory and played with my friends. I loved to rub the yellow pollen of the buttercups on my nose, blow the dandelions, and stare at the dark purple hues of the winecups and pet their velvet petals. The next stop was the highway where the patch of black-eyed Susans lay. My final search was picking the perfect bluebonnet. The temptation of its beauty and interdiction  made the bluebonnet all the more appealing. Once I had found the loveliest bluebonnet within my sight, I would run home to show off my collection to my mother; all except the bluebonnet. The forbidden flower was my secret.