I’m not going to write about another April snowstorm.
It’s about tax time, and I’m not going to write about that either.
Yesterday, I left the house around 5:00 a.m. and didn’t get home until 9:00 p.m., driving a couple hundred miles and attending two separate meetings, along with doing some real work. I’m definitely not going to write about that.
My grandchildren came in a few minutes ago. They’re still living with us – their new house needs a couple weeks of remodeling before they can move in. I was on pins and needles waiting to see what sort
of mood they’d be in. At ages 5,6, and 7, it can be a little hard
to predict what the weather will be after a long, tiring day at school that ends with a 45-minute bus ride. The forecast was stormy when they straggled through the door, shedding snow pants and backpacks, but the Beatles “Life Goes On” came on the radio, so Grammy and I showed them a few dance steps and they soon joined in. I don’t know that many dance steps, but if you don’t pay much attention to the beat and twirl and dip about every 10 seconds, everything seems to work out okay. After that, they found the song “Let it Go” and played it at full volume, singing along with vigor and a mild lack of precision.
Shortly before the kids came home, I was watching out the window as a gray cat sunned herself in front of the shop, a stray my son-in-law found at the end of our driveway one day when it was about -20 degrees. She was in really bad shape, about an hour from death was my guess, and, quite honestly, that would have been my choice. Still, the cat was placed in my care, so I found her room on the heating pad, took her food and water, and waited for her to die. I did check the cat corral more often, but truthfully, that was just so I could dispose of the remains before the kids saw them. The rest of the family took better care of her than I did and oddly enough, the cat lived. She fought for her spot at the supper dish, hung in there as her wounds healed and even though she lost a few extremities to frostbite, she seemed to hang on to her self-esteem and will to live.
She looks like an extra from a horror movie, but now was clearly enjoying the spring sunshine, even purring when scratched on non-existent ears, stumping slowly across the yard on three remaining legs to meet me.
Sometimes spring is a dance, kicking office chairs out of the way and whirling and dipping on a scarred wooden floor. Sometimes spring is a song, one you bellow as loud as you can, finding your own tune despite the variation from the written notes.
Sometimes spring is a grey cat, saved from certain death by the kindness of strangers, enduring the bitter cold and long dark winter to emerge in the sunshine with scars and a bad limp, but relishing the springtime and looking forward to what summer might bring.
It might snow again. Tax season is certainly upon me. There will be more long days, more meetings, frustrations and aggravations. But the sun will shine, flowers will bloom, small children will sing and dance, and beat up old creatures, with challenges and too many scars, will limp into the sun and enjoy the light.
Copyright 2013 Brent Olson