"Just Smewin the Fwowers!"

If you have ever been to George Washington’s home in Mount Vernon you would know that there are hundreds of acres to venture off and explore. My family being there from Ohio wanted to search every inch of it. My youngest nephews five senses were going crazy, but two of them were struck very forcefully when we got to the beautiful flower garden: his sense of sight and smell. Due to his short stature his nose was the only thing being teased.

In the flower garden of Martha and George there were many groups of flowers that were blocked off by a small brick ledge to keep people, and especially young ones, from stepping in the garden and crushing the flowers with the soles of their shoes. This was particularly hard for Evan since the top of his head reached just below my hip. Every time he would lean to get a sniff of a flower that caught his attention by its beautiful colors he would start to lose his balance, falling forward, and scratching his hands on the concrete path. He finally got fed up, and with his slight speech problem, looked at me, leaned his head so it was leaning on his left shoulder and said, “Aunt Selley, can you lift me up so I can smell the fwower over der?” Of course I fell in to his dimpled smile and hoisted my arm under his pudgy belly that was rolled over his jeans. He inhaled so hard that the petal of the flower he smelled collapsed to the inside of his nose; and he giggled and wriggled around in my arms bringing his scratchy, dirty hand up to rub his nose.

After he repeatedly lifting him over almost every kind of flower in the garden, I had to turn him down the next time he asked me to lift him up. As everyone else was busy checking out the other flowers in the garden, no one noticed Evan in the corner. Looking around, my sister grabs me by the arm as I was about to yell his name. I immediately looked in the direction she was pointing, turned on my camera, and snapped his picture. He had figured out a resolution to his own problem of not being able to smell the scents surrounding him. He had gotten down on his grass stained jeans, crawled over to the brick ledge between him and the flowers, and was leaning with both hands and his left knee on the brick, stretching his short torso over the ledge. His right foot was barely touching the ground as he balanced himself. After everyone had gotten their picture of him, my sister yells, “Evan, what do you think you’re doing?” Scrambling to his feet as quick as his little hands and feet would let him, he wiped his hands on his jeans. He then shrugs his shoulders and lifts his hands, palms up towards the sky and says, “What? I’m just smewin the fwowers.”