February 26, 2020

I don’t remember all that much about my father. For some things, I’m not sure if what I recall is an actual memory, or simply the memory of the few things my mother chose to share with me. It was 1963 when my father died. I was eight and a half years old, and not nearly as sophisticated as the kids of today are at that same age. All kids in those days grew up sheltered. Well, sheltered and maybe something more. I’m not certain if people back in the day considered children as fully sentient human beings.

One of my mother’s favorite sayings was “children should be seen but not heard.” I don’t know if that was a common belief back then, but it’s a very telling one, isn’t it? It almost makes it seem as if children were no more than….the sofa, or an end table. Those are two other objects taking up space that are seen but not heard. I’d have included “a pet” in that analysis, except of course, one hears the dog bark to go out, and in response, one immediately opens the door.

I think that attitude toward children must have been close to being normal for the times, because in the aftermath of my father’s death, there were no psychologists wondering how I was coping with my loss, no teachers who took extra time or care to ask me how I was doing, or listen as I grieved. From what I experienced, there was sympathy for my mother who’d lost her husband—and to be honest, she believed she was due all that sympathy, and so do I. But as much as I loved my mom, she never quite processed that not only had she lost her husband, but her children had lost their father.

I don’t recall there was very much sympathy extended to me, an eight-and-a-half-year-old suddenly fatherless child.

One of the things that I do remember about my dad was that he had a definite nick name for this month we’re nearly done, an adjective that he said in front of the word “February” that was something I was definitely not allowed to say as a child.

February is the month that I recall being the absolute worst of the winter months. It was the coldest, and the snowiest. There’d be the odd glimmer of spring here and there—and then that promise would be snatched away, as old man winter would strike again.

I almost feel as if this particular February in which we’re living is a blast from the past. Only two days ago, on Monday, the sun shone all morning, and the temperature reached a balmy forty-nine degrees. As I drove into the city that’s east of here, I noticed how almost all of the snow was gone. Yes! The groundhogs had gotten it right. Spring was about to arrive!

This morning, the forecast calls for four to six inches of snow, with the temperature headed for 32, but feeling more like 21. Really? Mother Nature, you’re really going to dump all that darned kaka on us this close to spring?

That woman, in my estimation, has a warped sense of humor.

So as I sit here, writing this, I peer around the edges of my new, very large monitor, and can take just a moment to appreciate the beauty of clean, white snow drifting earthward from heaven. I can appreciate the beauty of the flakes, and can even imagine soft, soothing music to accompany the display. For about two minutes.

Then I just want the kaka and the cold to go away. It’s going to be March in just a few days. And although, yes, I’ve always said winter here is October to March inclusive, the truth is that March is when, in my heart and on the calendar, spring begins.

It really can’t happen fast enough.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury