We’ve gotten through the holidays, and maybe it’s my
imagination, but it seems to me we used to look forward to them, rather than
hope we survive them. There’s something
seriously wrong about ads with kids trying to get their folks to buy a new car,
for heaven’s sake, as a Christmas gift.
It’s all behind us, and I’m sure Martha Stewart would not have given me a passing grade on
either my Thanksgiving or Christmas table settings, but we had family together
and it doesn’t get better than that.
I look out over the bleak landscape – if you can love a
place in late January or early February, you’re in the right place. The horizon blends into the fields and the
snowbanks are sullied by topsoil blowing into the drifts. Used to be, we had hedgerows and fence lines
and railroad beds keeping the topsoil where it belonged. Don’t get me started.
And in the midst of overcast skies and dirty snowbanks I
think of Mr. Stearns’ gladiolus field.
We lived on West Main; two houses east of us was just the most beautiful
sight you could imagine. Mr. Stearns had
an entire lot – maybe a third of an acre – in gladiolus plants. They were glorious, elegant stems full of
brilliant color, every color in your big Crayola box and maybe some that
weren’t. From our yard, you could just
see the tops of those long-stemmed wonders, like a mosaic. If you see maybe five or six together in the
grocery or at a greenhouse, you’ve got to be impressed: Mr. Stearns’ glads took up most of his lot,
an awesome sight. Sometimes we went out
into Potter’s cornfield and got a look at them from there.
Mr. and Mrs. Stearns were gentle, humble souls, and yet gave
us a wonder to regard, a memory bright and heart-warming, to cherish over the
years and lighten the long days of winter: the blessings of an ordinary life.
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