spring – Memphis Flyer

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak

— Mary Oliver, “Praying”

Sometimes I stop on my neighborhood walks to caress the moss carpeting the arm of a mighty magnolia that reaches toward the sidewalk. As spring approaches (which, as I write this, officially begins today), the buds and blossoms intoxicate my senses — the sweet smell of blooming dogwoods and the bright hues of newly flowering gardens speckling the way. One might consider these moments something like prayer — a pause to appreciate things often missed in the hurriedness of human life.

The signs of spring as spotted on a recent walk (Photo: Shara Clark)

Last week, I noted the many dandelions and clover patches dotting the edges of the walkways on my route. I’ve never been too good at finding four-leaf clovers, but occasionally I’ll stop and scan for one. After passing several over the course of a mile, a particular patch called to me and broke my stride. I took a few steps back to get a closer look, and as soon as my gaze focused on the clovers, there it was — a four-leaf! But then, wait — another, and another, and another. It felt like I’d hit the jackpot. Moving my eyes and fingers along the puffs of green, it seemed every other clover was a lucky one. I plucked until I hit seven. I’m not sure why, but that was the number. Although I knew in my gut there were more; I’d leave those for someone else who took the time to look down. It filled me with warmth, perhaps something like a response to prayer, a sign in the silence that I was on my right path that day.

Yesterday, as the temperature dropped before what I hope was the last frost of the season, I saw from my porch a mama squirrel carrying her baby in her mouth. Mama scurried quickly across a lattice portion of my side fence, with baby curled in a ball hanging by the scruff of its neck. I assume she was transporting the wee one to a safer or warmer nest, as I read they’re known to relocate. Her acrobatics were impressive, toting a baby a third of her size as she jumped down, ran, and leaped to the top of the wooden fence across the yard, tight-roping the height of it and only stopping every few feet to secure baby in her grip. Having never seen such a thing in my decades on Earth, a warm feeling washed over me watching this gentle moment unfold. A representation of love and protection, nature and nurture.

Once the squirrels disappeared from view, I let my own furry creatures outside to play. My dogs Frances and Steve enjoy sunbathing on these longer days, and happily munching away at the creeping ivy, sniffing the tiny blue violets, or rolling around in the now lush grass.

I’ve never been too good at praying, and elaborate words may escape me most days. But I do see the beauty in the weeds and stones, in the moss and magnolias. And witnessing this rebirth — this voice of spring — is something like prayer.

Big Chill in Bluff City

Two weekends ago, I walked out into the Saturday morning sun. It was 65 glorious degrees and headed into the mid-70s by afternoon. March had just arrived and March means spring in Memphis. And spring in Memphis means it’s time for Yard Man to get after it.

So I rolled the electric mower out of the garage and ran it over the front yard to mulch last October’s standing leaf harvest. Very satisfying. Very mulchy. I could hear the grass giving thanks.

Then I crawled around the flower beds that make up most of our backyard and clipped and snipped the dead stems, marveling at the annual miracle of perennial shoots emerging from the soil, ready for another season of life. I made a large pile of brown vegetation. Also quite satisfying.

Next, I was drawn like a salmon returning to its home waters, to the Midtown Home Depot, where (as one does) I picked up a mega-package of paper towels, some birdseed for the feeder, six light bulbs, some floor cleaner, two bags of potting soil, and a partridge in a pear tree. And lots of plastic pots of blooming annuals to brighten up the deck — petunias, anemone, lobelia.

There is a clear and simple joy in sitting in the sun and putting fresh plants into old clay pots, digging out last year’s roots and putting the fresh square bundles of soil into their new homes. The smell of loamy earth, the dirty fingernails, the stained trouser knees — all the rituals of spring, of rebirth.

I liberated the faithful hose from its winter abode and filled it with purpose. The new plants were watered and it was good. Yard Man was content. And there was beer.

All was well in the kingdom for a couple of days. I took inordinate pleasure from the new flora each time I walked out the back door — the blues, whites, purples, and yellows. I noticed the buds emerging on the fig tree, the white blossoms on the plums, and the big oaks turning green at their tips. Spring was well and truly sprung.

And then we began to hear rumblings of trouble from the West. A cold front was coming, they said, a real one, with ice and snow and frigid temperatures. They were calling the storm a “cyclone bomb” and saying it would hit Memphis Friday night. We’d be lucky to survive, it appeared. The ensuing weekend would be a frozen, snowy, icy mess. In a city that is still littered with piles of limbs from a February ice storm that left 150,000 people without power, this was not good news.

Alas, the storm did arrive Friday night, right on schedule, and it was a doozy, with sleet, lightning, strong winds, freezing rain, four inches of snow, and temperatures in the mid-20s. I built a fire in the fireplace but there was no joy in it. Feeling fatalistic, I decided to just let my new flowers tough it out. Snow would protect them from freezing, I’d heard. Whatever, spring. You bastard.

The next morning, just one week after I’d welcomed spring to my yard, the city awoke to a coat of thick wet snow. The social-media photos were lovely, folks. Thanks. But there was also sun on this new morning, and lots of it, and before long, rivulets of meltwater were everywhere. Heavy clumps of snow were falling from the trees and rooftops. There were no broken limbs, no power outages. Huzzah.

At midday, I got out in it and walked around the neighborhood, taking in the snowmelt, the wet streets, the bright sun reflecting it all, the warming air. It put me in mind of a John Updike quote that I return to on occasion: “I am now in my amazed, insistent appreciation of the physical world, of this planet with its scenery and weather … that every day and season has its beauty and its uses, that even a walk to the mailbox is a precious experience, that all species of tree and weed have their signature and style and the day is a pageant of clouds.”

When I returned home I was happy to see that the petunias, anemones, and lobelia were blooming bright in their snow-crusted pots, literally no worse for the weather. And I looked again at the buds emerging on the fig tree, the white blossoms on the plums, the big oaks turning green at their tips.