Peering into the glass bottomed boat, we watch Henry, an old bass, pole vault a fallen log at the guide’s command. So he claimed. Nearby a bottomless enigmatic eye wells up prompting my mother to say, “Ponce de Leon and his conquistadors came to Florida searching for the fountain of youth.” FSU’s divers’ longest line couldn’t hit the bottom
of Wakulla Spring. “On that white rim’s where they found my Spanish wine bottle. Carbon-dated it to 1517.” Gift of Florida’s chief supreme court justice, the sand-dulled glass became her most treasured possession. Symbol, perhaps, of her own lost quest?

Minnie Louise, treasure
of a mother, frequently
uncorked praise for spring—
her favorite season. She
would leap around the manse
singing ‘spring has sprung,
. . . spring has sprung’
Once on an April visit
to the Manassas civil war
battlefield, she intoned
“mah-ass-is tired,” giggling,
and kicked up a storm-raised
beer bottle. A sobering find
to pair with her other prize
bottle back home. Evaporated
elixir—like the empty vials
found in closets and cabinets,
after cancer and addiction
soirited away the Spring
shwe loved—and often was.