April 2008

So come, you storms of winter,
And then the birds in spring, again--
I do not count the time,
For who knows where the times goes.
Who knows where the time goes?
--Sandy Denny, British folk singer-songwriter (1947-1978)

Time is getting away from us, up on the hill. With Easter being so early, and the switch to Daylight Savings Time, it feels like we should be enjoying spring in her full glory, but instead of tulips and sunshine, we’re still contending with snow squalls and bare branches. There’s an hour of daylight left after work, but the wind and damp conspire against any late-day gardening. As anxious as we are to get our hands into the earth, we have to wait.

Instead, we bundle up on Sunday afternoon and take a quick walk ‘round the still-wintry property, gauging the size of leaf and flower buds, as if our watching will make them break forth sooner. After the tease of last spring, when an April freeze ruined all the fruit trees’ flowers, and dulled the garden for months afterwards, we’re even more anxious than usual (with both anticipation and anxiety) for brown to give way to green.

Since we are not parents and see our nieces and nephews only periodically, we are left with each other, the dog, and the garden as yardsticks against which to measure the passing of time. The grey in the dog’s muzzle, the height of the blue spruces we planted, the color of the viburnums’ leaves, these are our indications of where the time goes. And--for the garden, at least--springtime is the season in which we see the most remarkable signs of time’s passing. On Monday afternoon, it is raining, so we skip our stroll through the yard. On Tuesday, work gets in the way. By Wednesday, there are suddenly crocuses and sunbeam-yellow Corneliancherry blossoms beckoning us to visit. At week’s end, the forsythia and daffodils have joined the party; mid-month and the garden will be a riot of color. By the close of the growing season, the four-foot pines we planted when we moved in will be as tall as the house, and we will look at each other and say, “When did all this happen? Where did the time go?”

Time stretches and pulls, lags then flashes, flows in fits and starts. We’re discontent, burrowed under wool blankets, in the midst of an interminable winter. A heart beat later, D is in the loft of the sweltering barn, handing down the patio furniture, sweating and cursing the amount of work it takes to get ready for summer… We have just met, and I am sitting across the table from him at a restaurant, looking at a photo of his youngest brother’s new-born daughter. Blink, and she is standing with a group of high school friends in her parents’ driveway as we arrive for a party, talking about boys and football games and the homecoming dance… Now we’re tearing down the breeder’s driveway, an hour from home, with a tiny, howling puppy who desperately wants to return to the warmth of her mother’s side. One deep breath, and the dog’s chewed her way through two pairs of my father’s shoes and his favorite belt, all in one weekend visit. Another breath, and she’s the queen of the hill, puppy exuberance replaced by middle-aged obstinacy. We begin to hold our breath, trying to stave off canine old age, and worse. But that approach is fruitless. Who knows where the time goes?

But go, it does. April is proof-positive of that. We start out the month with Easter already a memory, and rush headlong into the warm days of spring, our eyes and thoughts focused on the summer ahead, Labor Day trips in the making, Christmas presents stashed away in the back of closets, retirement shimmering out there on the horizon. But time runs backwards, too. At least in our hearts and minds. Sometimes backwards is easier than forwards; other times, not. Either way, time spins out its line, and in these first quixotic days of spring, it’s easy to wonder where it all goes.