Spring calls through corona’s mist

“…Spring put on her gayest pastel frock to call on the Parson, who was deep in gloom at the state of the world and his unhappiness with it. She twirled before him, her flowing skirt revealing a flash of bronzed leg. The Parson stared in disbelief.

“‘Wanton!’ he said.

“Spring ruffled his hair.

“‘Laugh!’ she urged, and took him by the hand to go study the lilac buds…”

*

This is from “Strumpet”, a poignant essay by the late Stuart Awbrey. He wrote beautifully and often for more than 40 years while an editor of newspapers in Kansas (Garden City, Hutchinson) and Iowa (Burlington).  Awbrey hitched joy to each of the seasons, but spring seemed his favorite – probably because it followed February, the calendar’s bleakest chapter, with its barren and unpromising landscape. Awbrey agreed with the naturalist Joseph Wood Krutch, who said February was “the 3 a.m. of the calendar.”

Again from “Strumpet”:

“…She tugged at the banker’s collar until he surrendered and went to the golf course. She lowered the top of a convertible, sent a chain of snake weed through the neighbor’s freshly-planted lawn, plucked a blue from Wedgewood and splashed it across the sky. Finally, she returned to my desk.

“‘LIVE,'” she murmured, tickling my ear with a yellow tulip…”

*

Spring can late in these parts because Winter is prone to stubborn streaks, holding on with his ice breath and sharp elbows, his kinship with Alberta and her clipper. Winter is often the party guest who doesn’t know when it’s time to leave. Christmas is long gone and King Knut has returned to his northern homeland. The lawns mostly green, crocus and hyacinth have sprouted, the daffodils are ready with tulips close behind, and old Winter insists on rattling his bag of tricks one more time.

Add to this the villainous virus corona, floating out like the breath of Macbeth’s witches, the mists of plague and death. Our lives are frozen, plans put on hold. Schools are wrapped in isolation. Bethany College is back from sick leave but restricted, students attending mostly online. Våffeldagen was muted, the Midwest Art Exhibition stalled. The Messiah and its Festival remain determined against headwinds of uncertainty and trepidation. The shadow of Corona falls over the land, obscuring the promise of spring, muffling Strumpet’s call to live.

*

Robert Frost’s poem, “Two Tramps in Mud Time”, tells of an April moment, the air and sky fresh and lighthearted. Suddenly a cloud crosses the sun’s path and a bitter little wind finds us out, and we’re back in the middle of March, chilled and frustrated. Out here on the plains, we know that sort of moment – the  promise of warmth, the raised hope, the ruthless rebuff.

While the hint of spring-burst is only a hint, Corona slithers along in the shadows, knocking people down and about, soiling lives with her foul breath. But as the sun climbs higher, Strumpet’s small caresses begin to acquire a total embrace of warmth and life, the need for man and nature to sit down somewhere in the sun.

Summer will be here soon enough with its share of tragedies, of wars and plague and loved ones dead, of broken promises and easy promises. There is also the exotic fancy of fireflies, the frolic at the swimming pool, the gentle mystery of lives and adventures shared  and the hope that more summers will come as this one ends.

For now,  Strumpet calls us through corona’s dank mist.

“‘Laugh,’ she smiles, offering a mud pie for lunch.

“‘Love,’ she sighed, planting herself full in my heart and then floating out the widow…”

It wouldn’t hurt if we, like Awbrey, gave up, set down our worries, and chased after her.

***