April thunder
booms across the sky this morning. The sky is grey and the sun is hidden, but
there is a sense of hope in the air. I have anticipated the clap of thunder and
the night music of crickets and frogs for so long I am excited by their
arrival. This is an experience that those of us who know winter understand
better than those who don’t. The price of seeing a Wisconsin spring is to
experience a Wisconsin winter. Oh, I know there are more and more people who
believe they can take a short cut. They believe they can avoid the winter and
still see the spring the same way. I disagree. You can take a helicopter to the
top of a mountain, but you absolutely won’t appreciate the view the same way you
might if you climbed the peak. The lyric in Guy Clark’s song sums it up, “...two
things money can’t buy, true love and homegrown tomatoes.” You can’t find home
grown tomatoes in a store. There are no short cuts to any place worth going.
Spring in Wisconsin is one of those places.
April has
always been a weird month anyway. Did you know April is the official Adopt a
Greyhound Month? They have there own website and everything. It’s also Alcohol
Awareness Month. I know a few guys who probably could provide some insight to
that one. Since 1996 April has also been National Poetry Month. I think April
is a perfect month for poetry because - as Mark Twain said of spring fever, “…You want something
but you don’t know exactly what it is and it makes your heart ache.” The
snowmelts, the grass turns green, and hearts move.
When I was a
kid on the farm, spring arrived when the frogs began to sing at night. The
streams would turn wild and the fields would get muddy. I sent dozens of
messages down stream believing they all would end in the sea. Some in bottles,
others connected to sticks, always hoping someone in a far off land would read
my message and contact me. I’m still waiting because now I know for certain the
Fox flows into the Illinois, the Illinois into the Mississippi, and the
Mississippi into the wide, endless sea. Someone just found a note in a bottle
that was 100 years old. Who knows? I might be next. (I don’t remember if I put
a date on my note and I know our farm address does not exist anymore, but how
many Trygve’s in Mukwonago, WI can there be? Just sayin’)
The birds are
big in April, too. They struggle through the winter just like we do, and when
the temperature goes up, they get even by singing, especially in the morning.
For those of us country born, the bird music is soothing and reassuring. Not for
everyone, though. We camped in late spring sometime ago and I distinctly
remember hearing one camper inside his tent shout at the early morning birds to
“SHUT UP”. I know I have a cassette tape somewhere with a dawn recording of the
bird songs made in April outside my bedroom window. I would use that tape as wake
up music in the silence of winter - a reminder of what has been and will be
again.
April is also
a month of personal celebrations. Our twin daughters were born in April and I
know that each spring I am confounded by the way our children enrich our lives.
Our kids make us live up to the promises we make to ourselves. The most poignant
and somber April day for me, however, is, ironically, April 1st. My
Mom died on that date six years ago. She loved the spring, especially the
lilacs. I can still see her standing in the garden turning the warm earth,
imaging something that no one else could see. She helped me understand that the
most important thing in life is nurturing. Everything and everybody needs help
at one time or another. Our job is to offer that help, not for attention or
praise, but because it’s what we do. The neighbor who is hurting gets his hay
put up or a hot meal. The starving fawn gets food and a place by the wood
stove. The injured son gets a bandage and rocked to sleep in Mom’s warm embrace.
Thanks, Mom
