A Deep River Year
March 26,  2014

He leaned forward in his wheelchair, his eyes hidden behind an enormous pair of sunglasses as a protection from the bright sunlight streaming through the window.   So I could not see the grimace, or the tears, as he told me the briefest story of their life together of over sixty years.    They had met once upon a time at a silver factory where she worked, and where he drove a delivery truck.   From the first he had loved her,  had set his sights on marriage.  

On the wall was a photo of their wedding, she in her long white gown, he in a suit that seemed like an extravagance--something awkward and out of the ordinary for him.    We do things like that--the fancy clothes, the flowers--out of sheer love.   And that is what it was, all those years, Art and Jean, husband and wife.   "Wasn't she beautiful," he said.   I turned to see her twisted on an institutional bed, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open, trying to die.     She could not answer now, could not tell her version of the story of this life.   "Yesterday," he said, "I woke up in the night because I heard her calling me:  Artie!  Artie!"   The nurse’s aide had come to him, helped him up from the wheelchair, held him by the waist as he leaned as far over the bed as he could reach--far enough to press his lips on hers, to answer her cry in the night with one last kiss.

Before I left Art there, in the room beside his dying wife, he shared a last confession.   "You know she was married before-- when she was very young.   He went over to fight in the war, and died in the Battle of the Bulge.  She never saw him again."   He paused, swallowed hard.   "And now she'll be back with him."    I took his hand, and we sat in silence for a moment, balancing in the space between us the weight of sixty years as a fragile treasure.

Holy Ground

We should not see some things, perhaps:
the stranger's tears that flow 
in some unguarded moment
when joy or loss or hurt
tears open the silent heart;
the most private touch
of hand to face of lovers
in their delicious, tender darkness;
a mother grasping  a child
in their first or last parting.
These things happen on holy ground,
bidding us to silence, or awe.
So when this once most eager groom
bends to kiss
this aged, broken bride--
still in his fading eyes
the most beautiful of mortal souls--
I turn away.
And this I know:
If she should die
in this one moment,
it would be love itself that wraps
them both around,
filling this antiseptic room
with some wild incense--hyacinth or sweetest rose--
and I would have to bend in reverence,
remove my shoes,
and thank the sun and stars
that this old world may wear us down
and tear our hearts apart,
yet  also give us this.

--Timothy Haut, March 26, 2014

A Deep River Year
March 19, 2014

Today is St. Joseph’s Day,  most notably the time when the swallows return to the old mission in San Juan Capistrano, California.   But I remember this day every year for another reason.     It is Irene’s birthday.   For many years she and her husband operated the little bakery on Main Street, getting up in the dark of the night to make the breads, cakes and rolls that would fill the glass cases and welcome morning visitors.   The cinnamon buns were my favorite, and maybe the dark, sweet squaw bread for which they were famous.   But the real joy was Irene’s welcome, in her strong German accent, as she offered a “Good morning, sweetheart!” or “How are you, darling?” as I walked through the door, then slipped an extra roll into the bag.  March 19 was Irene’s birthday, and every year I would bring her a bouquet of daffodils to thank her for being a gracious part of my life.

The bakery has been gone for many years.   But March 19 still pops up in my mental calendar:  Irene’s birthday.    The year unravels that way.  Not just a succession of numerical dates, but a tapestry of memories that mark the important moments of our lives.    For me, this week not only significant for Irene’s birthday.  Monday, St. Patrick’s Day, was the anniversary of the day that our son suffered a severe brain injury that left him hospitalized and recovering for over a year.   Thursday is the Spring Equinox, when I look forward to having flats of seeds sprouting in anticipation of this summer’s garden.      Friday is the annual Volunteer Fire Department banquet, on a night which sometimes ends with the joyful nighttime song of the spring peepers.

These occasions will not be marked in newspapers or history books, but they are every bit as important to me as the headline events of our time.  They mark the people and experiences that have shaped me, the simple gifts which have given me joy, the challenges that have stretched me and helped me grow.   They make me stop in time, to remember, and to be grateful for all the holy days I celebrate.   Today I will get a bunch of daffodils, and give thanks for Irene.

St. Joseph’s Day

Today the swallows return
To the old California mission,
And  Spring will be here again.
One curious legend claims
That the birds fly thousands of miles--
All the way from Jerusalem--
Carrying twigs which can float,
So that they can perch on them
And rest during their long journey.
Perhaps we are sojourners, too,
And the twigs we carry
Are the memories
Of those who have peopled our lives,
And the dark and sweet passages
That have sustained us on the way.
I gather a bunch of bright daffodils
To remember this day,
To honor one good and shining face
Who smiles in my gallery of grace
As spring comes again.

--Timothy Haut, March 19, 2014

A Deep River Year
March 12, 2014

 Walking through the center of town early this morning, I barely noticed them at first. There were blackbirds high up in the trees, flapping their wings and moving from branch to branch in the gathering daylight. Ten minutes later and a few blocks away, they were still up above me. I once knew a man who believed that a flock of crows followed him around, even as he moved from place to place, city to city. There is either a certain aura of paranoia about the suspicion that we are being followed--or an overdeveloped sense of our importance in the cosmic order that makes us think that even the birds are interested in what we are doing.

 When I got home, I was settled in to reading the morning paper and having my coffee when my wife, Phyllis, called me to the back door. She smiled as we stepped outside, and pointed to the tall maple in the side yard, where a large cloud of male red-wing blackbirds had taken roost, their spring song filling the morning. They were back! The red-wings’ arrival is one of the surest signs of the changing season, their unmistakable trill and distinctive “conk-a-reeeee” proclaiming, “It’s Spring!” Soon the females will arrive, too, and the marshes will be busy with nesting.

 The hills and yards are still a mess of gritty snow, but for now, I have my oracle. Today or tomorrow I will take a walk through the mushy snow that fills the woods, and I will hunt for the first striped points of skunk cabbage rising from the mud. I may find, along the way, a few snowdrops taking the sun in a sheltered place, or see an early bee hungry for a crocus. I even will be glad if a few blackbirds are interested enough to follow me.

Signs

 You have to know
 What to look for.
 Spring is not first announced
 By waves of daffodils
 Or the eruption of blossoms
 On the wild forsythia.
 Go among the sodden leaves,
 And look for a stretch of mud
 Where a skunk cabbage peeks out,
 Oblivious of cold,
 Or watch for a haze of red
 On the face of a distant hill,
 Or notice a sealed willow bud
 Split into a silver smile,
 Or listen for a song in the morning
 As a dark visitor flashes its wings
 In flight,
 A crimson badge of joy.

 --Timothy Haut, March 12, 2014

A Deep River Year
March 5, 2014

There was shrimp etoufee to eat and lots of New Orleans style music at the Mardi Gras party last night at our town’s senior center.    It was probably a little different from what took place on Bourbon Street.   There were feathers and beads and masks, even a palm reader in the corner.   A few folks, trying to converse at their tables, asked that the music be turned down a little.   After the meal, some of the seniors got up, drawn by the lively music, and dodged the metal walkers as they danced.   The party ended early.

Mardi Gras is the celebration of carnival, which means “farewell to the flesh.”   It is a reminder of the ancient Lenten tradition of fasting from meat, but it could just as well be a warning of our own earthly limits.   Perhaps the wild exuberance of Rio or New Orleans pales a bit as we get older, and that’s why last night’s partiers went to bed early.   As we age, we get closer to our own “farewell to the flesh.”   It is not a bad thing, of course, to be reminded of our mortality.   The hope is that we savor the days that are given to us.    We should live them all as gifts.

This morning I went outside early to fill the bird feeders.   I found our little pond had been desecrated during the night, the pump knocked over, the water murky,  the goldfish gone.   A trail of blood and scales led off across the crust of snow, and we guessed that a hungry raccoon had made a nocturnal visit.   It was just a few fish, I told myself, even though I have fed those fish for several summers and winters.  I knew their markings, sometimes called them by name.    And so I am sad for the loss of my scaled brothers and sisters.  And I am stung by the reminder that all of us are just dust and ashes, who are facing the party’s end.    Carpe diem.

Ash Wednesday

The brown earth begins to show,
Taking sun,
So that life can happen again.
We are drawn to this ancient awakening,
drawn to some pulse in dirt and stone
that is our own.
So we come to a moment
of dust and ashes
to remember what is in us.
We step away from our days of dancing,
the wild carnival of pretending
that we are young, that laughter is forever,
and that singing hearts may drown out
the wails of grief, or the silent desolations
of our waiting loneliness.
We come from the wishful feast
still hungry for love’s banquet,
still waiting for a better season,
for something simple in us,
like loam or humus,
which is ready to take sun.

--Timothy Haut, March 5, 2014