The aroma of roses on the wind, the display of white lilies rising up from their winter silence invites memories of other springs.
On the Great Plains, spring blew in with a force that forced you to bend your body forward to struggle against its powerful force. It tugged and howled, your hair lifted straight up and then flew into your mouth and eyes. The force of that wind cut your legs, the copper dirt of the ancient inland sea reminding you that you were a blip in time. Girls had to wear dresses and freeze for the cause of being a lady, whatever that meant. The wind announced everything, storms and seasons. Moods and barometric pressure. The power of the land and the weather united to remind us how small we were in that grand space. Through its fierceness, we learned how to trudge, bent over against the natural forces which we took as a part of life, nothing unusual. We gritted our teeth against the biting wind, which we learned later was how you had to manage all kinds of things in life. Sometimes that wind brought tears to my eyes, and they’d roll down my cheeks recklessly. There were indeed things to cry about, but the wind gave me something more than the tragedies of my young life—living with my sometimes nice, sometimes not nice grandmother, missing my parents. It was a vivid place. The air of the plains smelled sweet, like the lyrics of the song “Oklahoma.” The power of it all made me feel attuned to forces larger than my small self. And grateful for it. In the scheme of things, the power of the land and the wind and the seasons gave me something to hold on to. It was a steady unpredictability that had nothing to do with people. It was already clear by the time I was seven, you simply couldn’t count on them. But thankfully, there were a few exceptions.
In the desert-like atmosphere of a town in the middle of almost nothing but flat red earth, there were blessings. You had to look for them. Nothing could be taken for granted. The stripped-down earth with its rocks and red earth and tumbleweeds told you that everything was basic, raw. You would be finally rewarded for your faith in the cycle of things when spring ushered in its newness with the rush of heat and flowers and green. For a time. It started in February with yellow daffodils. More biting winds in March belied the underground renewal that was invisible, but soon the trees burst into flower and the grass, brown and dead over the winter, became green and fluffy. The winter wheat waved greenly in March and April, and we looked forward to its golden waves in May. I suppose it was the contrast between dead grass and despair that made the greening and flowering spring so intense.
There is one spring that imprinted itself on me: the May of 1963. By then, the boy/man whom I’d secretly loved since I was eleven seemed to notice that the little girl who’d played the cello beside him for years in symphony had become a woman. Wordlessly over the years, we entered realms of ecstasy side by side, rising on the tides of Bach and Beethoven. He was fourteen when we were photographed together to play a duet. I thought he was so mature with his deep voice. His bright dark eyes were full of good humor, his wit always at the ready during symphony rehearsals. Three years older than me, he was a kind of god, an all knowing, nearly grown up man. And he was the kind of person who spoke to me with respect, despite my young small skinny glasses-wearing bucktooth self.
I suppose something happens to you when you are lifted from regular life into higher realms through music and the kind regard of others. His dark eyes would meet mine, and I imagined a deeper connection, but it couldn’t be true. I was nothing, no one, but I could dream. I wrote his name and mine in my notebooks, certain nothing would become of such fantasies. We were friends through family and symphony practice through my teenage years, and then one spring night, my romantic dreams did come true. He kissed me, my first kiss, and told me he loved me. My relationship with being loved was quite dicey by then at age 17, but to discover that he loved me was a miracle. I had loved him for years, and now…
No, none of the usual things you might expect were to be. Once my grandmother found out that a friend we’d known for years was romantically interested in me, she and his mother conspired to break us up. We complied and didn'tin the yearning and the missing. The normalcy of simply dating and enjoying the flowering of our love was taken from us.
At the very end of our time in that small town—I was a senior and he was in college, they allowed us a few weeks to be together—assured that we would take separate paths into our adulthood. The gift was given to us to attend my senior prom. There we were, blessed by the adult forces that be, me dressed in a lace dress, he in his white coat and black tie, smelling of old spice. The moon rose over those greening fields that night, huge and round as we danced to “Moon River,” trembling and close, an ecstasy surrounding us born of love and loss and impending separation. It was May and lush and spring, and the air was laced with roses and jasmine and the last tendrils of childhood.
It is nearly May now, and my roses are in bloom. We grew up, married others, and were friends over the years, with a few meetings, and many unsaid things between us. For thirty years, I dreamed about him, how we were separated. How we would meet again. That we fell in love again and were to be married. Then, I dreamed that he was dying, and called him. And yes, he needed to see me, to talk to me about everything before he died.
We were blessed to have two days during his hospice care to talk about our lives and our memories. To laugh and remember moments only the two of us shared when we were oh so young. There is more to be unraveled in future writings, but now, on this cusp of May, I celebrate him and how he gave me love in the gentlest and most innocent of ways through music and the joy we shared. That we had been children together, a most innocent and delicate way to be known. The fact that he too knew about that powerful spring wind, and the huge azure sky, and the golden wheat ripening in May. He knew the way the plains speaks to you in its unique language. Five years ago this week he died, having given me this gift: I have always loved you. I never stopped loving you, but I knew we had to go on into the rest of our lives. I dreamed of you too, and now we have said all the unsaid things.
Sometimes we have to wait a lifetime to know the truths that run like a current underneath our lives. Sometimes this truth can take years to be affirmed. Sometimes, love finds us in all its unique forms, if we are lucky.
This gutted me (though in the best possible way). From the first line I can feel that wind whip my hair straight up and then into my eyes and mouth. The physicality of this place and time pop off the page. Bittersweet and lovely to the end.
Thanks for a beautiful peace, Linda Joy.
Your thoughts arrived just before I turned off my bedside lamp. I fell asleep recalling earlier times—your times, my times... We all have memories that we hold dear and Springs of Yore on the Great Plains hit home with so many of us. Thanks for a reminder of Love.