Spring has arrived, and it is a beautiful sight indeed.
It has been several years since we’ve truly had a spring.
Too often, cold winters have given way abruptly to hot, humid days. But this year feels different.
There is the softness of a mild sun, absent its usual merciless heat, while an occasional breeze drifts sweetly through the boughs of trees just beginning to burst with tiny green leaves.
On several mornings, I’ve stepped onto the back porch, closed my eyes, and simply taken it all in. When I was a child, there was a Southern gospel song by The Happy Goodmans—the first gospel group to win a Grammy—titled “What a Beautiful Day (For the Lord to Come Again).” It was written by their drummer, Aaron Wilburn, whom I knew casually.
He was one of the funniest people I've ever met. With a single sentence, he could have me doubled over in laughter. He also wrote the incredibly successful “Four Days Late.” Both are serious songs, and if you knew the delightful Aaron, you might never guess he carried such depth.
Each morning as I soak in spring’s beauty, I find myself singing, “What a beautiful day for the Lord to come again.” I can hear the powerful voice of Vestal Goodman, and sometimes I even pull the song up on my playlist.
As I walk—often barefoot—through deep green, cushiony grass, I feel content and blessed.
Then… I take a realistic look around the Rondarosa, and my heart sinks.
Because with the beauty of a perfect spring day also comes the work. The hydrangeas are dead, begging to be cut back, as are the rose bushes. Limbs have crept over the walkway, blocking the path, and the pastures are crying out for a day of bush hogging.
A couple of large trees have fallen across the creek, each promising a full day of chainsaw work and hauling to the burn pile.
Over the winter, fence boards have popped loose or bowed in the middle, needing repair and a fresh coat of paint. Meanwhile, the dogs and cats remain blissfully unaware that the kudzu is already hinting at its annual takeover—soon to grow a foot a day, choking everything in its path.
So Tink and I, a bit wearily, get to work.
This year, we hired Billy “Smarty Pants” full-time—not as a criticism, but as a fact. The man can do everything: fix an engine, cut grass, and repair a fence. One day, while we were working and Tink was off “sommers,” he asked if I had a rough-hewn fence post.
“I’s fixin’ a couple of boards and a post come up.”
I couldn’t find one in the barn, so I called dear Jerry Truelove, who farms about three miles away. Since Tink had the truck, I couldn’t make it to the Farmer’s Exchange myself.
“Yep,” Jerry said. “It’s used, but it’ll do.”
In the five minutes it took me to return and tell Billy Jerry was on the way, the job was already done.
“He done been here and gone,” Billy said.
Such is farm life.
With spring comes the scars of its battles. I already have a bump on my cheek from a run-in with a tree limb and a welt on my arm from wrestling with the Kubota utility vehicle. With my size 4½ ring finger, my hands are small. I tried using a screwdriver to press a stubborn button—it slipped and cut my arm. And, of course, I’ve already had my annual showdown with fire ants.
Still, it is a beautiful spring.
And for Aaron Wilburn, he has found the most beautiful spring day of all. He’s gone home to heaven.
Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell series. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.