>From Jan, [email protected] Everything is Greener (from the Sunday Afternoon Rocking series) Everything is greener. The trees on the mountains are dressed in bright young spring greens, tinged with yellow. The leaves are not yet dusty, and the trees stand shimmering in poignant freshness against the backdrop of the darker lush greens of pines. It has been coming for some weeks. The flowering trees have heralded spring, announced their appearance in dainty pinks, bold fuchsia and virginal white. And after their announcement, have softly withdrawn into their own places on the mountains, blending now with the greens of more quietly spoken trees. Spring has arrived and the mountains are preparing now for their summer. They will sing on the mountains for months, softly swaying in breezes and whipping frantically in storms, sheltering life of all types that venture into the kingdom of the trees. And thus they will remain until autumn, when once again the most outspoken of them will herald another season with individual bursts of vibrant golds, yellows, oranges, sienna, and thanksgiving. It is spring, and everything is greener. It is spring and life on the mountains is bursting with promise and newness. The baby lay on a blanket on top of a bail of hay. Her sister stood just to the side and beneath, dark hair cropped into a "pixie cut" of sorts. Her oldest sisters, hair cut in identical styles, stood on each side, in high dark laced shoes and stockings, identical dresses their mother had sewn by hand. It was spring, and the girls' chubby round faces were filled with promise and newness. It was spring, and everything was greener, even though the 1921 photograph showed only shades of gray. Mama and Papa proudly recorded the moment of promise, the youthful faces with all their lives stretching before them, a promise of years of springs to come for each of them. A son would come later, and his spring would be recorded the same, in the same place. I think their dreams for those babies must have been that they find their way away from the hard life the generations before had known, that they have more education, that their life be just a little better than the generation before. I think so, because I know what my grandparents sacrificed for five children, and I know the notions they planted in their heads that life must be different for the ones coming on. I painted the porch swing today. I do not have a porch. I have a deck, and a porch swing beneath it, because I cannot imagine life without a porch swing. Mama would lay me on a flowered pillow and tie my chubby baby self to the slats of Pa's porch swing. She would set the swing to swaying as she went about her business on a farm that offered no work conveniences, and few for living. The baby lay on a pillow in the porch swing, chubby legs drawn up to kick in the spring warmth. A delightful gurgle escaped her lips as Mama snapped the photograph that would remind a woman a porch swing had been a part of her life all of her life. It was spring, and the baby's round face was filled with promise and newness. Everything was greener, even though the 1950's photograph showed only shades of gray. The place was the same, the same farm on which the 1921 photo had been snapped; though the baby would not stay there long. And another mama and daddy proudly recorded the moment of promise. I know their dream for that baby must have been that she find her way away from the harder life they had known, that she have an education, more than any that had come before. I know they wished that she see a bit of the world and another way of living than that which had been before. I know because I know the extent to which they sacrificed that these things come to pass, and I know the notions they planted that there must be no argument about choosing such a path. And I know that in the locked corners of that baby's heart, though she followed all the paths carved before her, the porch swing was never forgotten, and the farm faded from the physical into a secret escape she carried with her in her heart. The day I brought my third home, I sat them together on the huge bed. Three little children, a tiny newborn baby girl between her grinning dark haired brother and her curly haired sister. Three of them with all of their lives and all of their springs before them…and I saved the moment. The place was not the same. The farm was gone, taken to make a wildlife refuge in the Land Between the Rivers. The place had no ancestral memories, and no future. It was a temporary place. It was not spring. Winter was coming on, and the only spring was in the faces of three children. But those faces were filled with promise and newness. And another mama still proudly recorded the moment of promise. This picture burst with color, and another way of saying "spring is with this generation". And I know the dreams I had for those children. An education, yes, at least as much, and more if they wished. And at least a life as fulfilling as my own has been materially, and more if they wished. Notions planted that they would have an appreciation, a love for, tradition and what has gone before. Notions planted that they must learn from the mistakes of that past as well as the successes of it. And there was a fervent hope that they would know innately the emotional lessons that I learned so hard. A hope that they would never have to tread the paths I trod before learning…something more. In June, the fourth generation will come home. She is a baby girl. We know this, and I, of another generation, am still yet in wonder that we can know this before we even look upon the promise in her face. She too will come to a temporary place, but like the generation before her, her spring will be recorded in vibrant color. She is more special than she knows, this baby girl. Her spring is more poignant than any that have come before. The four little girls in the first photograph have left us now, as my father did eighteen years ago. All those ladies slipped away within two years, two within a month of one another in the autumn, and two within twelve days of one another in the winter, of both a year and a lifetime. They all lived out the promise of the long ago photo, and all the years their tiny youthful faces suggested. They lived seventy-nine springs, eighty-two springs, ninety springs, ninety-one springs. But they left me, and those who loved them, in a bleak cold winter. And the days were harsh, and the trees on the mountains seemed stark fingers clawing at the sky, grasping at memories, denying truth. The wind echoed a screaming heart, wending its way through the last days of winters crying for what had gone before, echoing a winter eighteen years before. And Serenity's spring (for her name is to be Serenity) is also my spring, a new life, a new promise. For all of the painful good-byes of the last few years, finally there will be a glorious beginning, a wonderful laughing hello. I am glad for the spring, and everything is greener. And her parents, my son, my daughter-in-love, must have dreams for this baby. I wonder if they have chosen her name based on one of those dreams. I think they must have the dreams all of us in each generation have had for our children. I hope there is something I wanted for my own…an appreciation for, a love for, tradition and what has gone before. And something more this time…a knowledge that happiness is not measured in bank balances or things. A knowledge that its secret dwells with choice, that it is free for the grasping. An understanding that its very simplicity, its very accessibility, is what confuses so many, and need not confuse this time. I hope there is a stark acceptance of the cycle of life, the fleeting nature of it. The innate understanding of spring, and summer, of fall…and a quiet acceptance of winter, knowing Spring will come again. And everything is greener. Just a thought, jan Copyright ©2002JanPhilpot ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be shared...simply share as written without alterations...and in entirety. Thanks, jan) Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to [email protected] Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to [email protected] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~