Serendipity, an epiphany, and "Merry Christmas!"

 

On Wednesday evening last week, during a respite after the rain, I decided to put on my work shoes-and-socks and weed-eat the highest grass. I changed into work jeans, too, but before going out, gathered the wastebaskets’ trash to put in the bin for next day’s pick up. As I wheeled the nearly-empty container to the roadside, the rain began again, very, very lightly. No weed-eating, but could I deadhead the roses? Yes. Taking up the work scissors, I headed to the north roadside. Suddenly, I was humming—like I always do; like (maternal) Grandma Flossie always did.

            What was the tune? What were the words? Then it came to me: “Love, Mercy and Grace,” a favorite hymn of my (paternal) Grandmother Mabel. Where in the world had THAT tune come from? How many years had it been since I’d sung it? Or heard it? Serendipity? Subconscious, knowing I had a section in my upcoming memoir on “grandparents”? I’ll never know. But I’ll certainly use it.

             Thursday was my six-month dental checkup. After x-rays, cleaning, the dentist checking, then making a late February appointment, the doctor wished me a “Merry Christmas,” and the hygienist said, “Happy Valentine’s Day.” How about that for thinking ahead? A poem took shape:

AUGUST 18:

My first
“Merry Christmas!”
“Happy Valentine’s Day!”
from those who won’t see me for
six months.

            Finally, Friday, the rain stopped. For a while, the sun peeked out. It was good to get back in the yard. With the push mower loaned out and the riding one disabled, and after all the rain, the high grass was lush and full of seedpods. I weed-eated one battery’s worth, then began the task of pruning back the ten-year-old hedge of variegated privet, spirea, yellow bell and euonymus. The branches had spread into the neighbor’s property. Robert is putting in a board privacy fence to shut out the backs of his several outbuildings, plus a lot of “stuff” that sits out in the weather. I needed to trim back my hedges so his boards could be nailed into place.

              After filling two wagonloads but emptying only one, darkness crept in and so did I. Only I didn’t creep. After shedding the sweat-wet work clothes and shoes/socks, I cooled off. It was only 82 degrees.

             Then I had an epiphany: I had been pulling weeds from our old barn lot! Something I didn’t do those sixty-some years ago. I’d merely waded through the weeds from the lot to the dairy barn when I had to milk the cow.

             Saturday’s intention to continue trimming out the fence row was stifled by—guess what? —rain! But I did sit on the porch swing and read the two papers—the Saline Courier and the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. An interesting but prosaic writing idea from a local clergyman in the spot where Terry Mattingly’s religious column usually was: “What I’ve Learned at the Age of Forty.” Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

           What I could write about turning eighty!

           But I won’t.

 

Blogging: Serendipity and spring

 

 

                Without a leading for this week, I searched through several catch-all books. Not finding “April” in the lists, nor “Spring,” I put them back in place. Abutting the last book I shelved, a thinnish hardback standing there--without a title on the spine, or author—piqued my interest. Pulled it down, and just guess what? A book entitled . . . serendipitously. . . WHO TELLS THE CROCUSES IT’S SPRING?

                I looked no further; this was it! The subtitle was “Favorite Poems of the Four Seasons as published in Farm Journal. Compiled by Pearl Patterson Johnson, published by Countryside Press, a division of Farm Journal, Inc. Philadelphia, 1971."

                “From the hundreds of poems printed in FARM JOURNAL magazine over the past three decades, [here are] 135 of the most representative seasonal verses. . . .” she said.

                I'd purchased this book four years ago from The Purple House in Eureka Springs—the hospital thrift store—for fifty cents.

                Since April is National Poetry Month, I’ll print a few. If you wonder about the typography, the slashes denote new lines. Somehow, in posting, the lines are double-spaced. Which I don't like. So, until I learn how to make them single spaced, I'll use this format.

                IT’S SPRING! IT’S SPRING! – by Mae Winkler Goodman

                “Who tells the crocuses it’s spring?/ What calendar informs the daffodils/ To bloom, or notifies the birds to sing,/ Or bids the grass to blow across the hills?/ What messenger instructs the buds to break,/ Or violets to lift their purple heads?/ And yet they know. They know. This is the hour/ When spring takes over. Let the winter pass--/ You cannot keep it from the wistful flower, / You cannot hide it from the eager grass. / It’s spring. It’s spring! The news has got around, / Spreading like fire across the quickened ground.”

                A RED-LETTER DAY – by Yetza Gillespie

                “When every budding maple wears/ On every twig a gilded locket, / When ponds are loud with clicking frogs/ Like marbles in a small boy’s pocket, //

                “When well-bred goldfinches ignore/ The ribaldries that bluejays utter/ At picnics where the grass is spread/ With dandelion pats of butter, //

                “Then you may ring the calendar/ With scarlet, though it shine or rain, / And run outside without your gloves, / For April has come true again.”

                DAWDLING WINTER – by Meryle Moore Simpson

                “This backward spring reminds me of the way/ The children used to think of everything/ At bedtime—any quick excuse to play/ Another hour: the drinks—remembering/ Small joys they had not told—prolonged good-nights--/ Good-night, good-night, again, again, again./ Closing the door and turning out the lights/ Was never final as it should have been./ A coyote, wind, a cricket’s harmless noise/ Was cause to fret, and I had not the / heart/ To chasten them. Now winter time enjoys/ Playing a similar, slow counterpart: / Reluctantly still dawdling in the snow/ Long past the hour for frosty days to go.”

                SPRING HOUSE CLEANING – by Blanche A. Hjerpe

                “I’m short of breath, my heart beats fast/ When nature is a-greening; / I’ll bet you think that I’m in love--/ It’s just from spring house cleaning.”

                May spring put a spring in your step, the aroma of flowers to your nose and a smile on your face.

c 2015 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press