It’s hard to believe, but there was a time in my life when one season after another passed away without my paying much notice. At that point in my life — about 15 years ago — I was fairly career-oriented. I spent much of my time chained to my desk in one newsroom or another.
When I finally left work, I’d be exhausted. I’d go to my apartment, plop down in front of the TV and drowse off within an hour or two. If I was feeling particularly energetic, I might read a book, have friends over or go to a movie.
I seldom spent much time outside, so the seasons didn’t seem very relevant.
Buying a home in a rural area changed all of that. Staying inside all of the time doesn’t work when you have landscaping to attend. (I know. I tried it the summer I was pregnant. I’m still trying to kill off some off the monster thistles that flourished that year.)
For a short time after my daughter arrived, the seasons were once again irrelevant. Pretty much anything that didn’t concern caring for my newborn and trying to get some sleep was irrelevant. Rain, snow, flood, drought — I didn’t care. So long as I had plenty of diapers on hand, I was oblivious to the world around me.
As the baby grew into a child, though, that all changed again. Small children are fascinated by all the small changes that mark the year’s steady evolution, and the interest is contagious.
Besides, the thistle patch outside our house was really looking nasty. I had to get out there and try to restore some order to our landscaping.
So as my daughter got older, we started spending more and more time outside. The small flower patch by my the kitchen door evolved into an all-consuming gardening addiction. We grew herbs and vegetables, so I had to learn how to transform them into something good to eat.
The more I learned, the more I wanted to experiment. My plantings grew increasingly diverse, and I became increasingly sensitive to nature’s time clock.
Then my daughter started school, and the seasons took on entirely new meanings. We have the school calendar to contend with, for starters. And grade-schoolers pay a lot of attention to the calendar. Every holiday, no matter how minor, must be studied and suitably celebrated.
Even though we’ve avoided over-scheduling our daughter, her extracurricular activities fill an ever-growing space on our calendar. We fit our lives in around soccer and ice skating; the county fair and Camp Rah-Rah.
At this point in my life, it sometimes seems as though each individual day is itself a season. It’s both fascinating and merciless, because I’m increasingly aware of how quickly each one slips away; how easily “the right time” becomes “too late.”
Sometimes it bothers me when I think of all of the seasons I missed when I was younger. But in a way, that was all part of a season, too: a season of me. That part of my life shaped who I am today as much as any other time.
I’ve been contemplating those indoor years a lot lately, because at several points in the last week, I’ve longed for their return.
There’s something about spending the final hours of daylight on a chilly Mother’s Day in the rain, shoveling mud in a desperate effort to keep a stone wall from collapsing onto the air-conditioning unit, that really makes a girl wish she’d never stepped out of a nice warm house.
It didn’t help that I had no one but myself to blame for that particular home emergency. I’d rigged a temporary drainage system for a broken downspout, and it couldn’t handle the weekend’s heavy rains.
Of course, it’s spring. It rains a lot in spring, and that water has to go somewhere. It follows the path of least resistance, not the path of best intentions.
I know these things, but I thought I could get away with a temporary fix until I had a chance to pick up some corrugated pipe. I didn’t want to make a special trip to a hardware store because we’re trying to conserve that liquid gold they’re putting in the gas pumps lately.
I ended up making that special trip first thing Monday morning. In the process of fixing the problem, I was late to work, my husband slipped and hurt his shoulder and I made sincere use of a rude word I’d never actually spoken before.
I couldn’t help but think that there was a point in my life when I went entire years without ever touching mud, much less being plastered with it. Sure, I didn’t know the difference between an annual and a perennial, but I enjoyed myself — and kept my hands clean.
I resolved, therefore, to make the repair, go to the office and get done what work was absolutely essential. I’d come home early that night, plop down in front of the TV and drowse off within an hour or two.
It was a lovely plan — just thinking of it made me feel better.
The day didn’t work out that way, of course. I had muddy laundry to wash, some cleaning to get done and a 7-year-old daughter who wanted to play. I also had to go outside and make sure the new drain was working. (It seems to be doing fine.)
I did get to sit down on the couch for a while, but we turned off the TV and played a few games of “Sorry!” We had a great time.
I still owe myself that drowsy evening in front of the TV, mind you. My eyelids get heavy just thinking about it. I will be gloriously lazy.
It’s already pretty late tonight, though, so maybe I’ll get around to it tomorrow. Or one night next week. July, possibly? I’m sure I can fit it in eventually .
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