Seeing Spring
This is the fourth spring I’ve encountered since my husband died, but the first one I have really noticed. I have dogwood trees in bloom, both pink and white. My “Fashion” azaleas, the ones my husband planted 15 years ago, are fully decked out in their peachy orange blooms, and my front yard is rimmed with iris in many colors.
Spring has long been my favorite season. So full of promise. Full of ease. Flowers are springing to life, but the grass is not yet demanding perpetual mowing. There are lovely sunny days, but we are not yet in the sauna of summer.
After years of disinterest, I’ve created a vegetable garden, right where my sweetie and I planted our original garden when we first moved here. Back then, we got up early on Saturday mornings to pick and wash produce and haul it to the Berryville Farmers’ Market, where in addition to selling lettuce and green onions, we sat around picking tunes with the other musical farmers. And sometimes a tourist would haul a guitar or a big string bass out of a car and join in. My husband and I always favored open public jams. I still do.
I have cooler weather crops already in the ground: lettuce, broccoli, onions, and Brussels sprouts, and I have an assortment of seedlings growing in the house, waiting to be hardened off and planted. A neighbor tilled the ground. Then I laid landscape fabric to define the rows and keep human feet from compacting the soil around the plants. I sit in the garden, in the same old dirty plastic chair my husband retrieved from somebody’s trash 15 years ago.A horse trough turned on its head serves as a table. That’s where I watched the eclipse.
But alas, the trees that were mere shoots southeast of the fenced truck patch we first planted are now full-fledged trees—and the veggies don’t get any direct sun until 10 or 11 o’clock in the morning, depending on where in the garden they are planted. Fortunately, pastureland abounds on the west side, allowing the sun to shine down all afternoon. I hope it’s enough.
This time last year my house was on the market, and I couldn’t have cared less about buds, blooms, broccoli or Brussels sprouts. For an assortment of reasons (the troubled housing market among them) I have decided to stay—at least for a time. I’m glad to be close to my Arkansas offspring as I sort out aches and pains that commonly afflict the “elderly.” I don’t otherwise feel elderly, but I suppose it’s comforting to be near my kids if it turns out that I actually am.
And I’m still loving the Saturday morning “Bookworm” jams at the Berryville library. I’ve been to jams in other places, but jammers here are more… well… sophisticated. Playing with these folks makes me a better musician—and it’s a whole lot of fun.
I love the familiarity of Eureka Market, Brews, and the monthly book club. I love that librarians don’t have to ask my name or take my card when I walk in to pick up a book.
I can’t say for certain what has prompted me to start savoring the good bits about still being here. It feels a little like regaining consciousness after having the wind knocked out of me 38 months ago. I haven’t concluded that I am staying here forever, but it’s nice to really notice things and to once again revel in spring.