Observations on a Sunny First Day of Spring

First full day of Spring and it is a sunny day with blue skies spreading over us like a lovely blanket of warm fuzzy feelings urging us outside to watch robins flutter and crocuses trumpet that, finally, spring has sprung!

The people listen and the dog walkers are out in force. Two elderly sisters walk their tiny Chihuahuas with their bright blue harnesses. A child is being taken for a run by his golden lab. A young man on his bicycle pedals by with a sedate collie, fur ruffling in the breeze, trotting along side.

Suddenly the leaves that have coated the yards on my street must be raked and almost every yard sports a male with rake in hand. Long, puffed lines of leaves bracket the street.

I can't possibly. . .oh yes! I really do smell that whisper of summer to come: Someone has unearthed their grill and the unmistakable scent of charcoal wafts through the air.

Throngs of kids, sweatshirts tied by sleeves flapping around their waists, blossom down the road on bikes of every possible color, their voices shrieks of laughter; raucous counterpoint to the bird song symphony of robins, finches and mourning doves.

The ninety-something gentleman at the foot of the road walks hand in hand with his equally senior wife of sixty some years. There is a spring in their step as they head towards the walking trail nearby. A scarlet cardinal stands out against the rapidly greening of bush and grass.

I feel the urge to wash windows and change furniture around. Opting for a fresh cup of coffee and a break from my newsletter, I head outside to enjoy the day and the fresh opportunity to see more of what today offers. And on the way, I'll bring a load of freshly washed sheets to hang on the line.

Four sheets blowing in the wind. Mismatched pillowcases flap at the ends of the line. Yup. NOW, it is Spring. Something about things drying on a line in the sun: That sunny feeling breezing through fabric. We shall sleep extra well tonight.

The willow trees down by the pond are beginning to get that faint tinge of lemon-lime-y green. The trees off on the hill will soon sport the leaves just now beginning to think about budding out. Soon that green tinge will coat the branches: that green glow before the burst of leaf.

A black squirrel, perched on the windowsill outside the computer room window, is eying the bird feeder. Why can't he do that when I'm inside and only a foot away?

Someone, the next street over, starts a lawnmower. Much pleasanter sound than a snow blower, I decide. A car arrives and grandchildren spill out in a flurry of hugs before heading for the back yard. In a flash, they swarm up into the branches of the maple tree. A broken branch drips. Taste it, it is sweet. Stopping the grands from breaking more branches, they are sidetracked by collecting the sap dripping freely from the branch in an empty coffee can. A satisfying plop-plop of sap collects several inches within an hour. Boiled on the stove, it yields just enough syrup to drizzle over silver dollar sized pancakes.

No, it isn't warm enough to run around barefoot. No, you can't play with the hose. First days of Spring mean Summer isn't too far behind. *looks at the weather forecast for the week ahead* Oh no . . . snow on Thursday. Knew it was too good to be true!

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away."— Maya Angelou

"You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough"— Mae West

"I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."— Marilyn Monroe

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity. "— Gilda Radner

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."— Albert Einstein













What are the things that bring a piece of writing to vivid, touchable, breathable life? Details are one thing that puts us in the word picture of what is going on. It is the myraid of details that allow us to 'see' the room and its furnishings, the way the leaf curls just before the impending storm or the way the snow changes the world around us.

But what gives depth to the scene is the perspective of the character and how his or her emotions color the description. Emotion is what can change the gently falling flakes wiping out the grime of the city and transforming it to a winter fairyland to seeing the dirty, grey-brown slush piled up at the edge of the side walk hiding the water that will swell over the edge of the unwary one's shoes.

It is the combination of details and emotion working in concert that allows the reader to truly be 'in' the picture, to lose themselves within the scene. Details put in the objects; emotions give them depth and substance.

'Dictionary.com describes emotion as:

–noun
1. an affective state of consciousness in which joy, sorrow, fear, hate, or the like, is experienced, as distinguished from cognitive and volitional states of consciousness.
2. any of the feelings of joy, sorrow, fear, hate, love, etc.
3. any strong agitation of the feelings actuated by experiencing love, hate, fear, etc., and usually accompanied by certain physiological changes, as increased heartbeat or respiration, and often overt manifestation, as crying or shaking.
4. an instance of this.
5. something that causes such a reaction: the powerful emotion of a great symphony.

Emotions are what, in the traditional sense of the word, define a major difference between 'journalism' and creative writing. One presents 'just the facts, ma'am' and the other is imbued with all the facets of life, all the back-story, all the angst and joy of the moment.

I particularly liked the Gila Radner quote above. For me, as a writer, it expresses what I, too, have learned over the years of being daughter, wife, mom and what I try to bring to my writing.

It is, I think, the emotions surrounding the events in a life, in the wishes and desires of that person that are what makes them alive. For example, would I just love to weigh what ever I'd weigh to fit into a pair of size 6 jeans? Ohh yeah! Why? It would be because of the feelings and emotions associated with that event. When we see a person, our viewpoint is colored by our emotions. 'They are way too skinny.' 'She is slim and elegant.' I come across the phrase in reading concerning a 'well turned or trim ankle.' It always stops me in my tracks. Why? Because I have inherited my dad's piano legs rather than my mother's 'well turned ankle' and legs that went on forever. I could be a size 6 and I still would not be able to describe my ankle in that fashion. (been there, tried that--failed miserably! *grin*) Perception and emotion bringing details to life, balanced with just the right amount of spice.

So. Why this week's words on emotion? Because I recently (the morning after Thanksgiving) had the impact of how emotions color our lives and words brought into a sharper focus. Until this event, I had been plodding along. Life was fine, not perfect by any means, but fine. The roof was over my head (barely, but the mortgage got paid), I had enough to eat (usually), work was okay (not great, but okay); ie; typical, normal life as we know it.

Then in the space of four words, EVERYTHING changed. Nothing in the aforementioned day to day stuff I just mentioned has changed (really), but my perspective of life in general has just been colored? enhanced? Certainly changed. All because my boyfriend asked me to marry him! Our financial stuff is same old, same old. The exact same day to day issues we've been facing together are still there; they didn't go away. But my viewpoint seems to have morphed from 'we'll get through it' to 'we'll get through it' seen through a happier, more positive lens. Let's face it. I'm flying high and happy. I'm incredibly emotional. I burst into tears at the store when I realized this Christmas I could buy him a 'husband' card' rather than a 'boyfriend' one because we are getting married in two weeks! Silly? Yeah. But that's okay. I'm old enough to realize that life goes on and being as we've lived together for years and years nothing much will really change. But it will and for the foreseeable future, I know it will affect how I look at everything around me.

All of this serves to remind me that big events (marriages, births, deaths) have a huge impact on how life is viewed. Emotions propel us for better or worse (excuse the pun--couldn't resist) just as they propel our characters and as each of us react in varying ways to such events, so too should our characters!

Characters Encountered

This week I offer a series of character sketches based upon folks coming into my station. Now this is not to imply that the majority of people coming in are anything other than regular, normal, everyday people. But today I seemed to encounter a variety of folks that seemed to have strayed off the path of normalcy and stumbled into the deep snows of the ridiculous. These made some of the more blissfully normal and wonderful customers stand out like bright shiny new pennies. *smile*

The first of these and what I remember hoping would not be a trend at the time, I shall call Ms Frizz. Badly and long ago bleached blond comes schlepping in in her pajamas and fuzzy slippers. She aims for the back of the store murmuring the word 'coffee' as if it were a mantra propelling her forward. 'Coffee...coffeee....'she says repeatedly as she makes her Dark Magic/Super-charged French Vanilla/French Toast concoction. She slippers up to the counter inhaling her morning brew. 'I really needed this!' she says with a beatific smile that clashes with last night's smeared mascara.

She then proceeded to launch into a tale of woe and misbegotten happenings that plagued her drunken Saturday night. I really needed to know this. Her pjs have fuzzy sheep on them. Puffs of lambs wool decorated the rams and ewes that scampered across her purple jammies. 'Oh and hey. I needs some reds too. 100's.'

'May I see some ID?' I ask. 'Oh... I don't have it on me.' 'Sorry, no can do then.' What followed then was the most energetic tirade of foul language. Hearing the swearing coming from this bed-headed, hung-over, purple sheepy wearing female was almost enough for hysterical laughter. But no. The manager cannot do that and must remain poised and polite. Score one for the 'future oddball character' list.

Then a few hours later I am visited by a creature from outter space. Far reaches thereof. *Hopes she doesn't insult any alien beings with that comment.* Lime green mohawk, what looks like lug bolts in his earlobes, a tongue ring with some sort of chain on it that clacks and crunches when he talks. A snake tattoo curls up from under he jacket and curls around his neck and ens with the forked tongue encircling his left eye. 'May I please have a pack of Newports and ten bucks worth of gas."
The ID question again. 'Sure here ya go' he says as he flips out his license. He pays, says thank you and is on his way. Nothing like a statement of personal self expression.

Church is letting out and I have a steady stream of stressed up (wait I mean dressed up) people in and out, many of whom seem to be in very cranky moods and inclined to say rude things in unkind tones to their children. I cannot resist offering several of the poor kiddos a free icee. (I'm so mean!)

Then came Mr. and Mrs. Small Town America. Old, impossibly old, both of them walking hand in hand with a cane in each of their other hands. He grabs the coffee cups, she gets the sugar. He pours, she reaches for the creamers. Well rehearsed dance refines over probably the last fifty years. She calls him 'old man' and he calls her 'old lady' and the smiles between them travel wrikled pathways cleqar to sparkling eyes. 'The coffees are on me today!'

Then there's the lady who always locks her keys in her car. This is tiny town, one stop-light, roll up the sidewalks middle America. Most folks here don't even lock their homes let alone their cars. She does. Usually with the keys inside. She's a mighty complainer. The weather's too hot. The weather's too cold...too snowy...too wet...too dry...too something. Today she has her husband with her. He, luckily has his set in his pocket! They quarrel themselves around collecting bread, milk, orange joice, smokes, and a dozen doughnuts. He throws a twenty on the counter as she haranges him about the keys. 'Have an excellent afternoon, folks.' I'm sure they will.

The RC lady comes in for her daily contact with the world. Always cheerful, always smiling. So nice when she bops in. She's a breath of fresh air!

Then there's the 'Bobsey Twins.' Rotund, rosy cheeked with exertion from walking to the store, they load up on chips, doughnuts, two candy bars...and two diet soft drinks.

Teen aged young man comes in with duct tape on most of his fingers. I can't resist asking why. 'It gets rid of warts,' he says. 'Duct tape can fix anything.' Hmmmm okay. Learn something new every day!

A gentleman comes in complaining that the gas pumps pump the gas too fast. he's followed by one who complains the pumps pump too slowly. Next person pumps fifteen dollars worth of gas and comes in with a coffee cup full of change. Only had $13.87. I let it go. 'Have a nice day!'

Characters all. All filed away for future reference. Fiction engorged with reality rings the most true. Somewhere, sometimes they will show up in my writing. Oh wait. They just did!

The Golden Man

I met the poet Robert Frost the summer I was 9 years old. I was spending the summer with my grandmother in Vermont and he lived just down the road apiece. It was the summer I discovered that I loved to read...anything and everything, but especially poetry. It was also the summer I decided that when I grew up, I would absolutely, positively be a writer.

My grandmother spent the summer reading poetry with me and having me memorize poem after poem which we would discuss during picnics in the back field. I memorized 'The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere' and 'O Captain, My Captain.' I memorized 'Jaberwocky. I spent hours on the poetry of Emily Dickinson, John Donne and Robert Frost. Words that I couldn't read yet, I learned to read. My favorite poem was this one by Robert Frost:

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing Gold can stay.

I remember talking about it with my grandmother and her explaining how the seasons come and go and how when plants were budding they were yellow gold and then turned green and then gold again as they were dying in the fall. Then they'd wither away to brown. My grandmother Annie told me I was still little, still gold. I liked being gold and wasn't sure then that I wanted to grow older if it meant that I wouldn't stay golden. She told me that I'd be golden again one day when I was as old as she was.

One day I was out exploring when I came across an old man sitting in the shade of my favorite climbing tree: the one with a stone fence running beneath it, that made it easy to get to the lowest branch.

We talked a bit about the pretty day and climbing trees and then he asked me what I was doing that summer. I told him I was memorizing poetry. He asked me what my favorite poem was, and why. I told him which one was my favorite and then recited it.
As he had asked me to, I explained why and told him that he and I were both in the golden stage. He asked if I knew who he was and I said that I didn't because he hadn't told me. Well, he was Robert Frost.

That summer he came over or we all met by the tree and talked about writing. He read what I wrote and then would have me write it again. And again. And again. He said he was always rewriting his poetry. He also told me that some of his poetry was very famous and that if people saw the revised poems they might not recognize them.
But that he revised even his published works because it made him happier with the results even if no one ever saw them.

He also told me that my grandmother was right in having me learn about the great poets and writers. Read, he told me. Everyday. He told me that reading and writing go hand in hand, and if I wanted to ever become a writer then that's what I had to do. He also talked of finding the beauty in simple, everyday things: The overlooked, mundane, 'yesterday, tomorrow and today' things.

The last day I saw him, he told me that he liked my interpretation of 'Nothing Gold Can Stay.' That he liked being my 'Golden Man' which was what I'd taken to calling him. He had a deep, gravel-y voice and I loved lying back in the tall grasses listening to him recite poetry. That day he recited my favorite poem of his to me. And then recited his favorite of mine!

I never saw him again after that day. I never forgot him, even though it was many years before I realized just how special a summer it had truly been and how fortunate I had been to learn from the master!