Natalie Whatley

American essayist, poet, and philosopher Henry David Thoreau wrote the following over 150 years ago: “Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises. If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”  Sounds like my kind of guy. Also makes me think that while our environment changes, the human condition does not.

The drummer I’m hearing these days — I’m certain some of you are hearing it, too — is tapping out a slow, rhythmic emergence – a cadence with crescendo leading us to (drum roll) . . . April. My favorite month.

And desperation as mentioned by Thoreau pretty accurately describes how much I was ready for the colorless, dreary days of winter to be over. I’ve been laughed at and told by Yankee friends that I’m a weenie and could never handle a “real” winter. I suppose they’re right. But I also remind them that they couldn’t handle a “real” summer.

March has been described as a time when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold. That sounds about right. I wish I could figure out a way to bottle the gentle warmth and cool breeze of this time of year for both the scorching, drippy days of our summers and the icky (I challenge you to find a better meteorological term) damp, frigid (it’s relative – below 50 degrees qualifies in my book) yuckiness that defines a Southern winter.

 But then again, the vibrancy of spring is probably more enjoyable simply because it is fleeting. To have it available at my whim would ruin the whole concept, I’m sure. Plus, I read somewhere that I should be interested in the changing of the seasons as it will make me happier than being infatuated with spring alone. I can’t help it, though. My eyes see it all in Technicolor, and it does appear more attractive than the others.

As I walk outdoors, I can hear the popping, the bursting, the chirping, the struggle of rebirth, the fluttering, and, yes, the quiet dusting of pollen particles floating through the air. It all comprises what ends up being my heart singing its own little concerto of awakening.

So, if I seem a little off tempo with the rest of the world, know that I try to march with others, but invariably end up out of step as I revel in the wonder of what will unfold along with new blooms. I know it sometimes makes me appear mad as a March hare, but I prefer calling it spring fever. And you won’t find me looking for a cure. I rather enjoy the frenzied pulse – creates a catchy tune. Marching to the beat of a different drummer – there’s nothing further from desperation and nothing closer to the boldness of enterprise.

I’ve mentioned before that April is my favorite month. Believe I even said that April in Texas is about as close to perfection as it gets, for me anyway. I love it! But those who must live with me pretty much suffer a month-long embarrassment.  Ever watch the squirrels this time of year, bouncing around and obviously feeling frisky?  That’s me – a little nutty, and I’m not talking acorns.

When the time changed last month, I came right out and admitted that my internal clock housed one crazy bird – the cuckoo. And the arrival of the cuckoo is a sure sign that spring has sprung. It’s true that I, stick-in-the-mud first-born that I am, get a little demented in the spring. Call it spring fever, but I think my children would fully agree that April just likes to make a big old fool out of me—long past April first.

See, April brings out my inner child. I like to drive (look up momma-mobile in the dictionary and there will be a picture of my vehicle) with the windows down, hair blowing in the breeze and the music loud enough to drown out my singing voice or more specifically, lack thereof. Oh, and I like to keep the beat by playing the drums on my steering wheel.  Even worse, I like most of what the kids today like in music. My children appreciate your sympathy. Scooter rides shotgun unabashedly, provided I roll his window down so he can look cool too.

I guess I should be careful and try to at least maintain some decorum since my face is plastered here and my name identifies other family members.  Nah!  That’d be boring. Besides, I ran in to a rather sweet gent last week who’s known me for a good while and he said, “There’s a girl who writes in the newspaper . . . favors you quite a bit.”  I chuckled and told him that “girl” was me. And bless his heart, (Yeah, I’m a southern gal, and no, feminism did not teach me to be offended by the “girl” title or much else for that matter) anyone who refers to my tired, aging-rapidly-through-teenager-raising self as a “girl” puts a little spring in my step. But I digress, the point is: Maybe people will see me acting a fool and not make the connection. I mean it is possible with the humidity low and all; it’s amazing how different I look on a good hair day.

The sunshine mixed with a breeze: I’m an addict.  I have to soak up all I can before it gets sweaty hot. Then there’s that minor detail of the kids being home during the summer. The backyard isn’t nearly as peaceful once school lets out. I know, sunbathing is a big no-no now, and yes, my very youthful-looking mother, Linda Rowe, has cautioned me against its destructive forces. But I’m a tad hard-headed. A girl has to have at least one vice.

I could stand a whole year full of Aprils, but then again I guess it’s so special because it’s fleeting . . . sort of like the childhood of my inner child.  

 © 2009 Natalie Whatley

Ah!  Pollen… sniff…sniff… cough, I mean spring, is in the air! I love this time of year even though it doesn’t love me. Each morning Scooter and I take our Claritin and hope for the best.  Sniff!  Cough-cough!

While I receive no further pharmaceutical aid, Scooter is also on Prednisone and fish oil supplements. Another story for another day. He’s getting to be pretty high-maintenance, but I take care of him because no one else adores me the way he does. Picture a long-haired black and brown dachshund with the body of a basset hound; that’s my mutt.  He’s not small by any stretch, but insists on being at my feet all day–often causing minor injury to us both.  That aside, I’m blessed to have such a friend.

But I was talking about spring . . . it’s difficult to focus.  I’m not “Claritin clear” yet. For your sake, I hope it kicks in soon.

One of the things I love about spring is the constant assortment of fresh flowers on my kitchen table. To the untrained eye, they would appear to be old plastic cups full of weeds. To me, they’re much more.

I have fond memories of some very short people with chubby little hands bringing me fists full of “flowers”.  Most of the blooms wild (those small white flowers that shoot up nice and tall about the time the yard needs mowing and Jeff’s nemesis, dandelions), but there were  always sprigs that were undoubtedly weeds. My young floral designers knew beauty when they saw it and always included greenery in their arrangements. If I listened carefully, they’d tell me what caught their eye and why they chose to include it in their masterpieces.

Over the years, small, plastic toddler cups served as the receptacles for their botanical creations. On my luckiest days, there would be as many as three adorning the table—one from each child. Here’s the great part: I still have those little plastic “vases” and some very tall people with not so chubby hands still fill them.  

I’ve gone through my kitchen cabinets many times culling out items that are no longer needed. Every time I run across those cups my heart smiles and put them back in their rightful place. Then I tear up as I remember toddlers waddling to the cabinets pushing a small chair and climbing up on the counter top to retrieve a “vase”.  I’d run over, grab the squirmy little body, gently admonish such upward mobility and assist in the trip down.

I stood looking out the kitchen window this past week and watched my youngest, a ten year old girl, as she picked flowers from the yard. As sweet and angelic as she looked, I had to wonder why she couldn’t be as attentive in picking up her dirty laundry from the bathroom floor. But with a clear vision of where I knew the contents of her hands would rest, I realized that while I can’t have everything, plastic cups full of weeds sure make me feel like I do.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley