It takes a daffodil to prove that spring will come again

Boston Herald

April 11, 1993

BEVERLY BECKHAM

One December day, when I was about 6, my mother announced, "Christmas is right around the corner."

I took her at her word, grabbed my coat, raced out the door and ran all the way to the end of our street. I expected to see a parade - Santa and his reindeer, a walking Christmas tree, and a bunch of elves marching toward me.

But there was nothing around that corner that wasn't usually there - just a few parked cars and a long line of tired-looking three-deckers. I trudged home disappointed, sure that Christmas would never arrive.

I've felt this way about Easter for weeks. Easter is right around the corner. Easter is almost here. That's what I've heard.

But I didn't believe it. I had no reason to believe. Every day when I sat in my office, I still turned on the space heater; every time I looked out the window, it was winter I saw.

The sun grew stronger and brighter, but it was like light reflected off a switchblade, cold and sharp. It didn't bathe the world in warmth. It didn't spotlight beauty. It highlighted ugliness.

Mounds of dirty snow stood out like blemishes everywhere. The grass, tawny, not green, barely covered the scarred earth beneath. The crocuses bloomed unnoticed under winter's debris; the hyacinth grew stunted, fringed with brown. Dirt hid the sidewalks, potholes ruined the streets. All the trees were bare, almost every yard was littered with branches; and on the sides of the roads were winter's shabby discards - cans and trash and an assortment of tattered papers.

Easter seemed far, far away.

Then a few weeks ago, we had a touch of spring and preview of Easter's renewal. A Saturday dawned golden and warm. People spilled out of their homes in T-shirts and shorts. Little kids rode bikes, and big kids drove cars with the windows down and the radios turned up. Fathers and mothers walked together wheeling babies, little kids skipping along beside them. The day bustled with runners, golfers, rakers, car washers, dog walkers, with people and things coming to life.

And the world didn't look so ugly anymore.

But then it got cold again and rainy, and everyone retreated indoors. That's when serious disbelief set in. Winter was stalled. I knew it. Spring would never come.

One afternoon last week, as I was grumbling about being freezing, I put on my coat, got in the car, turned on the heat and drove up to the local mall. The drive was reaffirming every negative thing I was feeling - that it would take more than a few warm days to prod buds to bloom, and seeds to sprout and the world to become a garden again. Resurrection seemed like a pipe dream.

Then I noticed the Lanes' house. There it was: spring in bloom. The lawn perfectly groomed and almost green. The windows shining. Easter bunnies and eggs in the window boxes, a flag with a bunny flapping out front. The place looked like the inside of some huge confectionary egg.

It was a small piece of perfection, and it made me smile.

After that I began to notice other signs of new life. The tulips struggling through the soil in front of the bank. A street sweeper tying up traffic but rubbing out winter. A guy driving a red convertible, with the top down, even in the cold. I saw that the lawns were tinged with green if you looked hard. I saw Mr. Draper out in his yard, raking and sweeping. And I saw in my own front yard, purple anemones I planted last year.

How much easier it is to believe in renewal when there is proof all around. How much more difficult when the proof lies dormant in the ground.

I feel like doubting Thomas. I never before realized how dependent I am on nature to prod my faith. I need to see to believe, even after a lifetime of springs and renewals and reaffirmation.

Night becoming day becoming night again should be enough. Spring, summer, winter, fall and its endless repetition should be enough. A package of seeds, one single human life, should be enough.

And yet it isn't. I depend upon daffodils to remind me of what by now I should know.