The Gifts of Spring

While on my walk, my own heart lately sodden with cares began to thaw with these first gifts of spring. A daring squirrel had climbed to the farthest edge of the highest and flimsiest branch, defying gravity, the tenderest shoots no doubt worth the risk. I loved his gumption, felt proud of his moxey, if envious.

The redbud trees are blooming; impossibly purple and delicate. Their greeting here at the close of winter while most of the other trees are still barren is like some angelic visitation bringing good tidings. I stopped and stared and could hardly believe the beauty, repented of my wintery unbelief.

I found myself marveling at the fortitude of a half-spent dandelion, standing brave and tall, alone, sprung amidst rocks. I fancied myself like that saint of old who was struck by the love of God at the sight of a falling leaf.

Two ducks squawked overhead like some old couple bickering and I wondered what they were saying, thought about C.S. Lewis’ talking animals. I then thought about a story I’d heard a few nights ago.

Pat’s cousin and her husband have some land in Texas – a few horses, fifty head of cattle. Sadly, one of the aging horses had to be put down. Al hired some guys to bury him on their land; Carol Lynne couldn’t bear to watch. That night, after they had gone to sleep, the human mourners were wakened by the animal ones.

“It was the worst sound I’ve ever heard. A crying. A moaning. It was awful.” (Carol Lynn says lots of things are awful, but her shudder convinced me.) “We looked outside and all of them cows had made a circle around where the horse had been buried. And they just kept making that horrible sound.”

And so I wonder about God’s creation. Rocks can cry out. Stars have names. Diamonds are hidden in mountains. Cows grieve for a horse. The sky turns black in response to a man's last breath on a cross. The creation stands on tiptoe. All the collaboration of all the geniuses of all time couldn't have imagined a world as amazing as the one we awaken to each morning.

Not Even Univac Could Figure Her Out

Growing up, my sister and I knew when our mother was talking on the phone with Ann because she always took on Ann’s voice. Ann has this extraordinary speech pattern: Southern and therefore slow and deliberate with added syllables. (My mother’s name Joanne becomes Jo-ah-yuhn.) Unlike other Southerners, though, her voice is not rounded-out, soft, or gravelly, but a roller-coaster voice with peaks of sharp, but still pleasant intonation. Hers is a voice with constant excitement, emphasis, punctuated with laughter, a musical voice that never ceases to make you want to listen.

Friends since they were three years old, “running wild up and down Main Street, jumping from the rooftops of downtown buildings”, it wasn’t until they were in their teens that it occurred to my mother that Ann was “a little slow”. No matter. They’ve remained friends to this day, now in their eighth decade of life.

Ann gets words wrong. She could have been the prototype for Amelia Bedelia. As teenagers, she was so proud of the cashmere sweater she’d bought, calling my mother on the phone to celebrate her purchase. “Is it a cardigan?” my mother asked. “No, Joanne. I already told you it was a cashmere.”

Later in life she showed my mother her “varico” vein. “It’s variCOSE, Ann, not variCO.” Ann said with her customary stubbornness, “You don’t understand, Joanne. I only have ONE.”

My mother and her friends would spend hours sitting around our kitchen table, smoking, drinking, playing a little cards, philosophizing. One afternoon, lips loosened by drink, Mama and Martha got on the subject of Ann’s inscrutability, my mother saying, “Not even Univac could figure Ann out.”

The next day Ann was petulant and cold, yet ready to explain why when my mother asked what was wrong. “I don’t appreciate you talking about me behind my back. Whoever this Univac person is, he doesn’t even know me!”