Springtime

We are just about to arrive at the Vernal Equinox. Astronomically speaking, spring begins in the next day or so. When I drove to Orlando from Jasper, I was intrigued to see how much further spring had progressed as I headed south. This got me thinking about the years of my childhood when I lived in Wisconsin. The winters were cold and much longer than even the unusually long winter we experienced this year in North Georgia. When the snow finally melted, we would sneak outside in our shorts to ride our bikes. It might only be 40 degrees Fahrenheit, but we were sure summer was coming. There were hints even before the snow melted that spring was on the way. I wrote the poem below, prompted by an image of my father on Sunday afternoon in late winter, writing to his brothers in Saskatchewan. I didn't realize it was about springtime and hope until I'd nearly finished it. My father struggled some with depression, but he was also a man who believed one should always have hope.

On Sunday Afternoons

On Sunday afternoons my father sat
with clipboard on his lap, and fountain pen.
His carbon paper, crinkly-blue from weeks
of use, was interleaved between the sheets
of typing paper, watermarked and smooth.
Each week he wrote his brothers far away
in Canada—with carbon copies for
his sister, in Tacoma, where she lived.
His tie was off, his dress shirt sleeves rolled up
still. (Dad washed dishes, Mom went off to rest,
we sisters dried. Those years we were too small
to reach the shelves that stored our Sunday plates.)
My sister had her crayons, and I a book.
We took them to the rug at Daddy’s feet.

So, from Wisconsin—which was cold enough—
he’d make response to Halvard’s spidery script
reporting days of Thirty Two Below,
that soon the skating rink he’d built us girls
beside the driveway, banking up the snow
and flooding it a little more each night,
would be a Lost Cause. And the crocuses
were poking up their heads; and robins, too,
were flying south in flocks—he’d counted ten
last evening, chirping near the maple tree.
And then he’d add that he was sad to hear
that Aaron’s dad was laid up once again
with flu—and hoped pneumonia wouldn’t lay
him low again, like last year. And, he hoped,
that Phil and Halvard managed to succeed
in fixing that old seed drill one more time.
And, please greet Pastor John. And give his best,
besides, to Ioleen, and let her know
that we all prayed for her, and hoped that soon
the Baby would be born, and all be well.
Aloud, he’d read us what he’d written down.

We marveled that our Dad could write these things
With squiggly lines on paper with his pen.
We sisters knew that then our dad would say,
“Let’s go outside and see if we can make
just one last snowman. Bring a carrot out,
that old, moth-eaten scarf, two mismatched gloves,
and no! You may NOT have my hat. Let’s see
what we can do outside to give your Mom
a rest.” We never thought that she would have
those dripping piles of mittens, snow pants, scarves
and hats to deal with when we came back in
our faces red, our laughing voices shrill.
The sun was going down. Our mother’s nap
was over. Soon the day of rest would yield
to weekday tasks.
--but now we basked in love.