A Deep River Year - 2017

Once a gnarled old apple tree stood behind our house here in Deep River. Its fruit didn't amount to much. The little yellow apples were hard, misshapen, wormy. They littered the ground on early September days. And as the sun was still warm and redolent of summer, the apples would slowly soften in the grass and attract swarms of yellow jackets. It was a challenge to rake them up, because the wasps preferred to have me leave a buffet of apples for them. I tried to make apple sauce a few times, but it was a lot of work to core the little things and carve out all the wormy spots and rotten parts. So about the only purpose they served was for little boys to engage in apple fights. That they did. And, on those evenings, they would fling those little apples into the sky and watch as curious bats swooped down to see what was flying through the air and appearing on their radar.


But it was in May when that old tree was at its best. My son Adam's birthday was May 2, and I remember with gladness the days when he, his brothers and friends romped through the yard. They were young and innocent and beautiful, and the sound of children's laughter filled the air at his birthday gatherings. For many years I organized a treasure hunt, in which I hid a treasure--perhaps a stash of comic books, or whistles, or candy bars--somewhere for them to find. Elaborate clues were also hidden around the yard; and they gleefully raced from place to place, sure that they would be first to find the treasure, which might have been buried in the ground under a canopy of forsythia, or tucked away in the stone ledges back in the ravine behind the house, or hung from a high branch of a willow tree. The joyful shouting carried on the breeze, and for the few minutes that the treasure hunt usually took, I would stand under that old apple tree as white petals flew through the air, like confetti, celebrating this good life.


That tree is long gone now, and a garden of peonies grows in its place. My son Adam is gone as well, leaving this world too early with a failed heart that was always so full of joy and love. And still, on May 2, I go out into the yard and listen for echoes of that rowdy, youthful laughter, and remember how sweet it all can be. I walk across the field, through the May grass, and smile at the hundreds of golden dandelions springing up to life. These are for me sunny souvenirs of Springtime which, like the apple blossoms that once floated through a May afternoon, remind me that the treasure hunt still goes on. And the treasure is all around us, and in us, too.


Dandelions


Bright they are,
 and golden, everywhere,
 as if a mad god
 had gone crazy,
 flinging them in wild profusion
 at the sheer joy
 of having such a world
 to decorate.
 They are weeds, of course,
 only because they are never sown
 by human hand.
 Instead they grow where a spirit wind
 once carried their white winged seeds
 to a cranny in the earth,
 a hidden place to settle and root.
 So the gifts of life and love
 are flung around us,
 random as seeds,
 and sometimes, after cold and dark
 leaves us empty, barren,
 there comes a sweet May day
 when those gifts will burst like blossoms,
 surprising us with a memory
 and a gladness
 that we thought was gone,
 still glittering like gold.


 --Timothy Haut