| Sunny Side Up June 2, 2004 �2004, Kathleen Gibson Three steps forward, one back We've had three barbecues. There's watermelon on the counter, strawberries in the fridge. And the willow outside my dining room window matches the green paint on the walls. Finally. (I chose that color so I could have spring year round. Deep in December, it helps to remember.) Rose-breasted grosbeaks and goldfinches have been visiting our feeder for days. Myrtle's tulips are splendid. My neighbours have already rototilled their gardens. Out back on the bistro table my bedding plant awaits planting. (Yes, one. Parsley.) And the farmers in our area are dancing - in the rain they've prayed for for months. I'd say it's spring. But spring springs surprises. Yesterday a motion at the window made me look up from my computer. Fist-sized clumps of snow raced to the bottom of my small glass square of sky. Unbelievable. A May 25th blizzard. I pushed away from my desk and walked out to the dining room. Larger glass, larger picture. "Kids, cum'ere!" I called, surprised by the untimely beauty. Then remembered. No kids live here anymore. "Moses, Mindy, come see!" I tried. But neither pet cared, and neither came. Not once in our recent long winter did I walk in a snowfall. Not so yesterday. Grabbing my red rainslicker, I headed out the back door and aimed for the alley. Moses bounded onto the table by the window to watch me leave, startling ten chipping sparrows jostling each other for space at the feeder. Have you ever stood gazing skyward into a heavy snowfall? Snowclumps, so white up close, are dark higher up, like flocks of circling birds. And these were the size of cowboy hats, my friend Lily said later. A mouthful each, I said. I know because I stood there with mine open, waiting for Mother Nature to drop one in. She did. And plopped more on my glasses and nose. But not my ears. I'd covered my head with my hood, the better to hear the snow falling as I walked. The clumps skidded down the slippery nylon, scraping like a plane landing without gear. But they clung to our newly greened willow, and decorated the cedars. I felt like a character in a snow globe. Stretched my arms wide and let Lily's 'cowboy hats' decorate me too. Back home, I shook it all off on Moses, alias Mr. Smugness. He huffed off, fur high. Something outside my window - a noise this time - distracted me again today. I stood to look. The Preacher. In clean pants. Mowing the lawn. Under a blue sky. He came in after he'd finished, legs plastered with wet grass clippings. Shaking his head and chiding himself for donning clean slacks for the job. "Dummy. I should'a just kept the other ones on." I blame Spring, welcome as she is. Between her flirtations with winter, and her long waits between visits, her dress code is easily forgotten. But I'm not complaining. Renewal - natural or spiritual - often feels like three steps forward, one back. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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