Winter Completed

You think winter will never end, and then, when you don’t expect it, when you have almost forgotten it, warmth comes, and a different light.

— Wendell Berry

Last night before bed, I let the dogs out into the back yard. I tracked them with the flashlight, wary of what might scamper away from them in the dark, setting up a chase and an opportunity for noise. In the beam of the flashlight, I saw what looked like little snowflakes. I stuck out my arm and tiny white crystalline dots clung to the fabric of my sleeve. Huh, I thought. Two days ago, it was almost seventy degrees. That can’t really be snow, can it? The dogs and I returned to the house, and I looked at the weather app on my phone and sure enough, it showed “snow showers” for our area.

I had forgotten that today is the first day of spring. This morning, standing in the soft warmth of the kitchen, coffee burbling in the pot, my wife stood at the sink slicing a tomato and took me aback by saying that very thing: “Today’s the first day of spring!” I stared at her and had to consult the calendar to confirm her assertion. And as usual, she was correct. I looked out through the kitchen window at the eastern sky, still as black as a banker’s heart, and felt the fetters of a pain-wracked winter fall off, almost with an audible clatter.

The last couple of weeks have been surprising in their rapidity. The Ides of March rattled by, and then Saint Patrick’s Day, and now here we are approaching Passion Week. On Palm Sunday last year, the enormous pine tree next to our house was felled by the terrible winds we endured all that day. God grant that we don’t see such a violent springtide this year. The winds were gusty enough yesterday to make me uneasy as I scanned the many tall trees surrounding our house while they waved and creaked under the force of the unseen, that which bloweth and listeth where it will.

This past week, I was out in the good warmth and puttering around with some small chores that my grating bones were able to perform. A neighbor’s son stopped to chat with me when he saw me in the field, and the talk turned to fishing. When I asked for recommendations of new fishing places, he mentioned a lake about an hour north of us, situated on top of a mountain. “They keep it pretty well stocked. Bass. Crappie. And trout.” He told me how to find the place, and I made a mental note.

So two days ago, on Sunday, my wife packed a small picnic lunch and the two of us set off to find the fishing spot. It took us just over an hour, and we were very pleased with what we found. The lake covers about 45 acres and is well maintained, with a rough walking trail around the entire perimeter. There are docks here and there, and easy access from shore to water. We also noted that no motorized boats whatsoever are allowed, which is indeed happy news. We’ll see how things unfold as the weather warms. I can think of worse ways to spend half a day than on a grassy bank with a line dipped in the wavy water.

When we returned from the lake, we stopped at a little country market three miles from our place to get some gas. We haven’t been to this market in a couple, three months. The fellow who used to own it died some time ago, and his widow has been keeping the place running, helped by a friendly gal with whom we always chat when we stop by. I filled the tank and went inside to pay. A voice came from behind the counter up front, greeting me. Startled by the sound, intonation, and accent, I looked up to see an Indian man  –dot, not feathers –waving his hand at me. He was brisk but indifferent in his brief interaction with me. I walked back to the car with a little acid slick forming in my stomach. I plan to make inquiries as to whether or not this fellow has bought the store, or is just an employee.

This is how it starts, I kept thinking for the rest of the afternoon.

We are planning a modest garden for this year, just tomatoes and bell peppers, and we’re going to try corn again in defiance of the lurking, voracious coons. We’re hoping the dogs will help keep them intimidated. But we’re not counting on it.

I’ve applied to 542 jobs to date and am still among the ranks of the indigent. Is it my haircut? The annoying nasal tone in my speaking voice? My lack of exotic pronouns?

I hope each of you is in a calm stretch of the path you’re on. And I hope each of you has something to smile at today, and someone with whom you can exchange a knowing glance, and perhaps a good crossword puzzle or a crisp deck of playing cards for solitaire, or a smooth, clean notebook and a soft pencil and an urge to fill the pages with those things no one else except you can compose, whether those things be poems or recipes or chores or lists of birds you’ve seen recently or a vacation itinerary or prayer intentions or lists of needed materials. I hope you find a piece of music this evening that fixes you in place and makes you stare at nothing while the notes scratch you in all the right places.

Happy first day of Spring, my dear ones. The days of warmth, and a different light, are coming.

~ S.K. Orr