my favourite childhood story was frances burnett's the secret garden. i loved the mystery of a secret private place. the idea of digging down and discovering new growth, new life.
growing up as first generation canadians (my mother was from scotland) in toronto in the 1950's, with virtually no canadian children's books, we children grew up with british notions of the seasons. it didn't really matter that we lived in canada and canada was different. in our minds, early spring came in february.march meant crocuses and easter meant tulips and daffodils.
i've had to rethink spring again since moving to newfoundland in 1975. easter meant maybe, if the winter hadn't been severe (as it has been this year), that there would be pussy willows in a jar to hang the painted easter eggs on.