In the sad, bad, mad, mod world, there will be those who will happily adjust their bifocals to the rustic, restorative musings of Mrs. Dykeman which begin with an elegy to the elementals (""a fresh crust of bread"" or a ""clump of fragile green ferns"") and ascend to the triumphant assertion--""I just love being a woman. . . especially in the spring. . . . I can buy a hat the color of dandelions and decorated with a froth of flowers."" Her whole book is indeed a froth of flowers along with homebody details on anything from curtains to calendars, on having a son wear a starched shirt--or sending him away to school, on travels here and in Europe (Biarritz to Dachau). Throughout it all the abundant sentiment is anti-materialist and to a degree anti-modern, as aromatic as sassafras and sometimes as sticky as her native honeysuckle.