Winter Weary

Winter having been nothing to write home about, I'm glad to be seeing signs of spring - the crepe myrtle in the front yard is in bloom, the azaleas are sprouting enthusiastically, and there are mini tulip gardens showing their pastel faces to the sun all over town - we are warm and flowering and in no time, I'm sure, will be bitterly complaining about the heat.

I can see my daddy puttering around the cottage in the spring - in his khaki work pants, stained t shirt and battered old thrift store hat, a Lucky Strike tucked behind one ear and always in search of his gloves, whistling as he dug dirt or cut wood or mixed paint.  He was not a man who could be easily idle, it wasn't in his nature or upbringing to waste time or daylight and on the weekends he usually worked circles around us all.  He loved the spring, the cool mornings and clear nights were ideal for outside work and hot coffee and the sound of a chain saw.  My mother rarely ventured beyond the deck and her knitting - come summer, she would retreat completely, switch the window units and the television on and withdraw into a lazy, alcoholic haze - but in the spring, she was glad for the lake breeze and the soft sunlight.  On weekends she would make lunch for them both and serve it on paper plates on the picnic table - sandwiches and salad, iced tea and egg tarts.  

I often wondered what they found to talk about,  these two people who were so different and so often at odds with other yet who stayed together - after their fashion - for the better part of forty years.  My mother loved to gossip while my daddy frowned on idle chatter.  My daddy was driven by a lifelong work ethic while my mother treasured her stay-at-home and reasonably pampered lifestyle.  My daddy was responsible, serious, thoughtful and quiet with a dry and gentle humor.  He enjoyed being kind and had faith in the goodness and decency of his fellow human beings.  My mother used people for her own amusement, felt entitled to someone to provide for and keep her, underlined her sarcasm with malice and promised misery for anyone who got on her way or denied her.  I suppose they were both filling the roles they'd been shaped for - giver and taker, talker and listener, alcoholic and enabler.  Perhaps it was easier to adapt and fit than stand out.  Perhaps neither of them wanted very much from each other.  Perhaps choice hadn't much of an option.  You married and did what was expected of you and kept trouble behind closed doors.  I was taught to take the easy road, to accept rather than resist, not to ask too many questions or look too closely.  Secrets and privacy, secrets and shame, secrets and silence.  Leaving my family was like escaping a long and cold winter and discovering spring.  For a time I was even able to visit in relative safety, knowing that visits end and that the criticism would pass.  And then one bright winter morning, sufficient time and seasons had passed and I was strong enough to say no more.  I left my family and my brother's house for the last time, knowing I would never be back.  There would be consequences, I remember thinking, but none of us were innocent and there comes a time when if you are to have any hope of moving on, you have to leave the toxicity behind.

So I miss the New England springs of my 20's.  I miss the shade trees in bloom and the gentle early morning light sifting through the leaves, sleeping with windows open and being reminded to take a sweater.  I miss the man my daddy was before he was forced to choose between his wife and his daughter and the man he became afterward, the man who took a second wife and who I've always hoped found some peace and love and self respect.  But it's just winter weariness and the missing will pass as do the seasons.