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