SAMANTHA

Mayday! Mayday! It's not a distress call but rather a call to attention. Attend to the merry month as poets describe it.

"Tell that to the Bosnians," says an inner voice.

Poet Edmund Spencer says, "Then came faire May . . . throwing flow'ers out of her lap around."

"Any flowers being tossed around in Rwanda?" says the same disturbing inner voice.

I get weary of that inner voice. Yet, if it weren't there, not only for me but, I hope, for millions more, would the forum for poets, patriots, artists, musicians, statesmen, etc., disappear?

In a world of fantasy wouldn't it be nice if warriors who stick flowers in their gun barrels as a sign of peace be all that warriors shot from guns? Or, would being shot with a rose make one fall down dead of surprise.

A young lad I knew who heard elders speak of the War of the Roses wanted to know where all the roses came from and did they shoot them from guns. Too, when he heard of guerrilla warfare he wanted to know why all the gorillas were so mad at each other.

A balm to soothe the nagging inner voice and lull it into a nap for at least a short period is to sit in the porch swing and converse with little Samantha.

Samantha sees the little things--tiny bees, beetles and buttercups.

She saw a bee rummaging around in the sunflower seed in the bird feeder. "See it?" she asked.

I had to admit that I didn't.

"Right there," she insisted, pointing a tiny finger.

I shaded my eyes and concentrated and was somewhat tempted to say, "Un-huh," but not until it took flight did I really see it.

"That's a honeybee," I explained.

"Is there honey in the feeder?"

"No. I don't know what it's searching for in there. It ought to be out on the dandelions and clover blossoms."

"I bet the birds don't like it when bees get in their place."

"I suppose not."

The inner voice arose sleepily from its nap and said something that sounded like that old German word, lebensraum, meaning living space, which had to do with World War II.

To hush that voice and take flight from all the word conjured up, I hastened on about bees since a bumblebee had come into range. "See," I explained. "A bumblebee is fatter than a honeybee."

"Does it sting?"

"Yes. Not as bad as a wasp though. Do you know a wasp when you see it?"

"Yes, they are skinnier than a bumblebee."

So I am lulled into a pleasant, simple dimension where the only thing to consider is the difference in body weight of the bumblebee and the wasp.

With little ones the conversation changes quickly. "Look here," she said, pointing to about a fourth of an inch scratch on her finger.

"Oh, that's nothing," I derided. "Look here." I pointed to where a rose thorn had pierced my arm, letting loose underskin blood to look like a bruise. "Right in the middle of this big brown spot."

She looked at my bared arm and with childish innocence said, "Are you kinda old?"

"Yes, kinda," I replied. I looked at her facial expression to see what difference that was going to make in our relationship, if any. She only looked up and smiled, dimples at their best. I got the feeling that being old or young was nothing of more importance than a bumblebee being fatter than a wasp, or a dandelion being bigger than a buttercup.

Such Balm of Gilead can soothe the distress calls of "Mayday! Mayday" and turn them into "May Day! May Day!" which accompanies the hanging of baskets of flowers on friends' doors.

REJOICE!