Keeping with Tradition

In the spring of 2020, during the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic and isolation since mid-March, seeing the crocuses bloom on our west hillside felt like a true gift from Mother Nature. It brought back memories of the annual crocus hunts my brothers and I would go on when visiting our grandparents. They lived just a few miles down the road, so we spent a lot of time together.

There was always something happening on the ranch in the spring—cows calving, and Grandpa busy feeding, doctoring, or sorting cows and newborn calves. But somehow, he always made time for the crocus hunt. It was a family tradition, and one we all looked forward to. There are countless photos in old family albums of crocus bouquets marking the occasion. These images captured more than just flowers—they represented another season of new life on the ranch.

Here’s a photo of a crocus bouquet taken by my Grandpa, Harry Nicoll, in the spring of 1982—a treasure I found while digging through the archives.

Crocus bouquet taken by my Grandpa, Harry Nicoll, spring 1982.

Sometimes You Can’t See What’s Right in Front of You

Hunting for prairie crocuses takes some patience. You can look and look—and still come home empty-handed. I went on several evening walks without spotting a single bloom, all while feeling a twinge of jealousy at everyone else’s spring crocus photos on social media.

Did you know the crocus is also called a windflower? Legend says it only blooms when the spring wind blows—perhaps that’s why they thrive here. They first emerge from the ground as small, hairy buds. The fuzzy leaves make them hard to spot at first. But when those purple sepals open, they reveal a bright yellow center. The flowers open in the sunshine and close in the evening or during cloudy weather.

On this particular quiet Sunday morning, my friend and I set out in the side-by-side to scout for crocuses. We drove along the hillside in silence, each hoping to be the first to spot one. It took some time, but eventually we saw a single, faded purple flower poking up through the prairie wool grass. And then, once we found one, we saw hundreds. We laughed at how silly we felt—it was a perfect reminder of that old saying: “Sometimes you can’t see what’s right in front of you.” Once our eyes adjusted, they were everywhere.

Holly looking for that perfect crocus photo out on the hillside. Photo Credit:  Janine Sekulic

My crocus hunting partner, Janine walks down the hill towards the flowers.

Cherish the Slower Moments

The pandemic was unlike anything we could have imagined. The quarantine period forced us to slow down and return to the things we love and respect—things that often got pushed aside in the busyness of everyday life. I found time to think more deeply about photography. I edited old images that had been waiting in folders for months. I spent more time outside with my camera—observing, reflecting, creating. Normally, I don’t pick crocuses to bring home. I admire them, take some photos, and move on. But that morning was different. I decided to pick a bouquet. Why? Because the moment brought me straight back to those childhood crocus hunts with my grandparents. I brought the bouquet back to the house and arranged it in the little glass my Grandpa had etched with my name—the one that was always set at my spot at their table.

The bouquet of crocuses from the hillside proudly displayed in my childhood glass.

I placed the bouquet on the table and smiled, knowing that spring had truly arrived—pandemic or not. The crocuses had returned, just like they always do. At that moment, I realized the important things hadn’t changed. And it’s the simple pleasures in life that bring the most joy.

There’s nothing quite like a crocus hunt to remind you of that.

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