ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Sunday, May 5, 1996 TAG: 9605060017
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
COLUMN: Dispatches From Rye Hollow
SOURCE: STEVE KARK
Let me tell you a story about spring.
Each of us, I suspect, eagerly anticipates the little signs that herald spring's arrival, especially after the tediously long winter we had this year.
The more desperate among us likely noted the hardy coltsfoot blooming in late February. That didn't mean winter had given up the ghost just yet.
Still, it was a wildflower.
For my own part, I've always held a special place for the songs of the first spring peepers, which began this year around the end of March, even as a recent snow melted around them.
While I avoid being overly optimistic about these signs - given the capricious nature of the season - still I count them off as they appear, making mental note of each. Taken separately they mean little, but taken collectively they become the new season and, for this, acquire a value greater than their number.
I don't like to admit a preference for any season - each has its own merits. Yet every spring is special.
Hardly one goes by anymore that I don't think about a story once told me by a friend. For her, the signs of spring have a special significance, one I can hardly begin to imagine.
I won't identify her here because I know she'd be embarrassed. She'd worry that you'd think her story foolish.
We have little in common except we share a familiarity with a country on the other side of the world. She grew up there, and I had the dubious distinction of serving my own country there 20 years ago.
Like me, her husband spent part of his military service in her homeland. They met, fell in love and married. She returned to the New River Valley with him when his tour of duty was up.
I was as curious to know what she thought about her new homeland.
One time she told me about her first spring in the New River Valley. Understand, she grew up in a tropical country, a place where there are no seasons as we know them. It was either the rainy season or it wasn't. As simple as that. It was always green.
When she arrived in the New River Valley, she was shocked. She'd never seen so much traffic or so many buildings.
Because she arrived in the middle of winter, all the trees were bare. She thought we'd killed them with pollution from cars and factories.
She was afraid to tell her husband. She didn't want him to think she didn't appreciate his country.
Still, it disappointed her. She'd heard so much about America only to discover a barren and lifeless place.
A few months went by and she thought she'd learn to live with it. Then something wonderful happened.
Those of us who've grown up with the seasons take them for granted. Can you imagine seeing it all for the very first time?
She remembers the first wildflowers and the color of the new leaves. She remembers how it smelled and sounded. How fragrant blossoms filled the trees, and how these in turn were filled with the songs of birds.
She told me she would never forget her first spring.
As for me, I'll never forget her story. I remember it each and every spring. It's not the kind of story you easily forget.
And it certainly isn't foolish.
LENGTH: Medium: 66 linesby CNB