In like a Lion, out like a …?

(4/2018) When my wife and I retired, someone gave us a book called "Common Sense for Seniors." It was obviously supposed to be funny, but she read the chapter on Old Men and committed it to memory before I had a chance to hide it; and ever since, she has quoted from it whenever the topic of golf came up. This year, we had a couple of nice days in February when I escaped in relative peace, and the forecast said the first of March should be pleasant but the rest of the week might be rainy.

So plans were made; but as the date approached, a cold front that had wandered out of Nevada decided to speed up, and Monday morning arrived under a gloomy sky. My wife warned of impending catastrophes… but there were a few rays of sunlight among the clouds that morning, so I put on an extra sweater, loaded the clubs into my friend’s car and headed out.

You probably can guess the rest of the story. By the time we got to the course the breaks in the clouds had sealed up; the sky was uniformly gray, a few mist-sized drops of water appeared on the windshield, and there was an ominous lack of other cars in the parking lot… but we loaded our cart and headed for the first tee. My first drive went straight down the middle of the fairway, which I should have recognized as an omen… but at my age when you finish the first hole only one over par, you don’t stop.

The mist turned into a drizzle, and the drizzle became a light but steady rain; and the numbers on the scorecard kept getting bigger until we finally stopped writing them down. Nevertheless, it was an interesting experience. At a small lake by the fourth hole were several hundred Canada geese; mixed among them were two swans and several coots. The trees were full of robins, and the bushes were full of red-winged blackbirds, present in abundance for the first time since last fall. And wandering in the middle of the sixth fairway was a flock of at least 20 wild turkeys. So, all in all, it was a good day.

I got home early, wet but not chilled. A person of my age has earned some level of immunity to most of the common cold viruses, so there were no after-effects except being a bit tired, and that was easily remedied by a nip of The Elixir and a nap. Even the expected lecture on Common Sense was relatively restrained. So that night I slept the sleep of the innocent, dreaming that if March was coming in like a lion, it must be just a little one, maybe a three week-old cub. In that, I was wrong. The next morning the wind was howling so loud even I could hear it, and every tree in sight was thrashing about like a teenager at a rock concert. It was a sign of problems to come.

We landscaped our yard around 1992 with some flowering plum trees, and they grew well and bloomed beautifully; but in front of the house the soil was shallow, and the plum trees were unable to develop deep roots. Some readers may remember that a few years ago one of them fell over one night when an 800-pound gorilla climbed into it to escape from a snowstorm; and now, the remaining one was leaning eastward at an angle of about 45 degrees, perilously near where our car sleeps in the driveway. And the wind was growing louder. And the rain increased.

By evening the little cub had grown into a whole pride of lions, and they were roaring. Trees were blown down on power lines from Ohio to Maine. Roads flooded, schools closed, cities were without power… a classic example of the wrong way to start a month. But, it didn’t last. After a week or so, the skies cleared, the lake at the bottom of the garden dried up, and the temperature edged toward the 50s. Crocuses bloomed in the flowerbeds, chickweeds and veronicas bloomed in the garden, dead grass in the lawn gave way to patches of green, and daffodils and tulips put up leaves.

As the week went on, the plum tree leaned toward the car a few more degrees each day, so I tied a rope around it and pulled it the rest of the way down with the truck. The chainsaw was reluctant to start, but I wasn’t too anxious to be climbing among broken branches with it anyhow, so I used a bow-saw to cut the branches into fireplace-size pieces. It was actually a pleasant task; the day was warm and clear, birds were singing, and four small friends came from next door to help. Four-year-old Jerome was amazed to find that he could lift the whole tree trunk by himself with only one hand, if he used the crowbar properly.

Things settled down a bit after that, and March marched on. St. Patrick’s Day arrived, and I spaded half a row across the garden and planted potatoes, as my grandfather would have taught me if he hadn’t died the year before I was born. It’s a family tradition; his grandfather, who was born on a ship coming from Ireland in the Potato Famine, probably taught it to him.

My grandmother, who taught me the rules of gardening, used to tell me about it each year when March came around, and she always reminded me that the only time grandpa would change the rule was when St. Paddy’s arrived on a Sunday. I wish I could have known him; in the old family album, photos show him holding grandchildren or feeding an apple to a baby pig. I would have liked him. The only reminders I now have from him are the photos, a few old tools, and 1/8th of the genes in my body’s cells… not a bad heritage, come to think of it.

As ordained by the old Farmer’s Almanac, the equinox arrived on the 20th of March. The sun crossed the equator at 4:15 AM, and spring was here. Someone woke up the lions again, and the Gods of Weather celebrated by dumping more than a foot of snow on my yard, and all of the other yards and roads from here to Boston. I was a bit surprised to find it didn’t seem to matter to me. My son and a neighbor shoveled off the driveway, and there were no cows to milk, classes to prepare for or exams to grade. So I sat at the kitchen table and watched the birds fly around in confusion, looking for the old tree where the feeder used to hang, and thought about the paradox of Ecclesiastes: all things change, and yet there is nothing is new under the sun. March will end, and from somewhere west of the Catoctin Mountain will come either a herd of lambs or more lions. It’s all happened before, and it will all happen again. Might as well enjoy it.