Every Now and Again

Every Now and Again

March has always been one of my favorite times of the year. The birth of a new season brightens my glum personal winter. For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved getting outside during this time of year and visiting the earth.

Back when I was twelve years old, I was especially close to the wilds of my neighborhood. I lived in an established post WWII war boom development. Our street, Garstland Drive, was gridded-out of a larger tract of rolling farmland. Ranch Road was directly to our east and Lynnhope Drive was immediately to our west. Surrounding these three streets were fields of empty pastureland, scrub trees, and briars.

Each day after school, I’d venture outside into this almost wild world and explore new and interesting corners. Sometimes, I’d take my new dog, Wags- a stray that followed my brother home one day. Together we’d run and run through the thin shafts of waving grass. In March, before the poison ivy claimed the scrub land, we’d run and run until we’d both just drop to the ground panting. Sometimes, I’d just lay there on the ground and let the wind roll over me, watching the clouds glide by. They always had somewhere they wanted to go and sometimes they would be in such a hurry to get there. I imagined shapes in the clouds; planes, animals, and even people.

In one particular piece of wild bottomland, a tall, hollow weed grew and hardened over the winter. Sometimes I’d pick that weed and chew on it. With a secret book of matches, I’d even try smoking that hollow weed. My friend, Jimmy Grosso, was an expert at that. He swore that it tasted great, but every time I tried it, it burned my mouth and made me cough.

Wags used to love to chase rabbits, so about once a week or so, I’d take her out to a particularly wild area; loaded with briars, weak and smelly paradise trees, rampant honeysuckle, and tall, tangled grass. She’d sniff around a bit and then go off into the gnarly brush. Moments later, I’d hear her yelp and then spot her dashing off on the heels of a scurrying rabbit. I’d run to keep up, but she’d soon leave me in the dust. Eventually, she’d loose the trail and return back to me, smiling and happy with dog delight.

My friends and I would play “war” in that same tangle. We had an elaborate game where we divided up into sides and played a version of hide and seek while carrying sticks instead of guns. When we spotted a person from the other team, we fired at them with our imaginary weapons. Once killed, you got to lie on the ground and stare at the sky and those wheeling clouds. I loved that part best of all. It gave me time to dream on the sky.

I found that I had a talent for climbing inside briar patches. When coming to a patch, I would stop and just study it carefully for a few minutes. Then I’d choose my entry spot, a narrow, almost invisible opening in the fortress of branches and belly my way inside. Once safely past the outer wall, I’d find myself inside a thorny, hollow hut of sorts. I imagined this place as my rabbit’s lair, a place of safety and protection. Who was going to get me here? The winds of March weren’t even any match for it. Yet I had discovered that once inside, the briar walls and soft earth made a very nice nest.

Around five o’clock…maybe 5:30, I’d call Wags, and we’d run home as fast as my legs would carry me. Each stride seemingly shook the entire Earth as we rolled home. In my mind, I imagined us running in some great Olympic distance event or perhaps bolting over the green dandelion-filled pastures of Ireland. (Do they have dandelions in Ireland?)

Some kids can’t wait to grow up. I never thought that way. In fact, I was quite the opposite. I never wanted to grow up. I wanted to stay twelve and for it to stay March for the rest of my life. Most of the time these days, twelve seems as far from me as a trip to the moon. So many pressures, events, and ideas have moved in to my mind. It gets so crowded in there. But every now and again, I’m twelve, and it’s March. And all is right with my world.