Editor’s note: Walt Amses is a writer and former educator who lives in Calais.
[W]ere the vernal equinox afflicted with a human frailty it would likely be multiple personality disorder, particularly in central Vermont where spring is inhabited by psychotic swings of personality — a series of ripping nor’easters or summerlike warmth and sunshine, depending on the year, and often enough, depending on the week. Our oxymoronic fall back position goes something like “expect the unexpected.” You can determine for yourself if by expecting it, the unexpected loses its prefix.
Spring can be as volatile as the great blizzard of 1888 that dropped several feet of snow on most of New England and the eastern seaboard or as soft as a southern breeze on an unanticipated 70-degree day in March. But as we frequently learn and sometimes need to relearn, we shouldn’t count on either. Skiers and snowboarders have suffered through early onset spring and a dearth of snow the last couple of years, while this year it’s northern gardeners doing the suffering, wondering when the ground will appear as winter sports aficionados cut class or call in sick to head for the woods.
The arrival of spring also seems to prompt memories of seasons past for some reason, at least it does for me. Although we generally remember things that are extremely relevant to our lives, or profound experiences that leave us with emotional pain, sometimes things stick with us for no apparent reason. Psychological researchers have reported that our subconscious might edit out some memories if it doesn’t believe they’re important or that we may remember half-finished tasks or unresolved issues that — if they occur in childhood — may cause us anxiety later in life.
My own spring memories seem to be a pastiche of the ridiculous coupled with the sublime, ranging from vague recollections of involuntary parochial school incarceration on Friday afternoons for Stations of the Cross; my ever-dependable ’50s Yankees; the warming sun rising over the Atlantic after a night of early season striper fishing at the Jersey shore; or dodging the law while selling buck-a-can beer in Central Park on the first warm afternoon.
But these recollections of springs gone by are mere snippets, moments in time — like quickly thumbing through a stack of old photographs rather than watching something spool out naturally, like an unedited video. Images pop up and disappear almost immediately, like being your own Instagram. But there is one exception, one exhilarating sequence that, in reality, probably took under a minute yet has indelibly etched itself into memory for over 50 years …
My 12-year-old self is walking through a suburban neighborhood on a misty, cool spring morning when I came to a long, sloping patch of lawn between two houses. Quite a distance away, almost obscured by the haze, I see the remains of a circular garden gone by, save a single, red tulip bobbing ever so slightly in an almost imperceptible breeze. I hesitate for whatever reason and glanced at the ground in front of me and there — between the toes of my Chuck Taylors — is a 45 rpm record with a Chess label … could have been Chuck Berry or Muddy Waters, I can’t recall.
The message was erie but unmistakable, compelling me fulfill the requirements of an adolescent male in these circumstances. What’s more, I clearly remember knowing unequivocally that my mission would succeed. By now I was cruising blind, on automatic pilot, ceding control to whatever gremlins controlled the 1959 universe, accepting the dream state I felt enveloping me as I languidly bent down to pick up the disc. I hardly aimed because I somehow already knew the forces orchestrating this event would complete the picture precisely as it was etched in my subconscious.
Even though it wasn’t warm I felt beads of perspiration on the back of my neck as I kicked my left foot out, reared back as though on a pitcher’s mound and with the flick of my wrist, let fly. The record twirled from my hand, flying off to the right a little, almost skimming a tall pine tree before flattening its trajectory, assuming the intended glide path. In thunderous silence, I watched the scene reveal itself in what felt like slow motion as the disc wobbled slightly before descending like a stealth fighter on a mission. The tulip never stood a chance but remained erect for a second or two after being severed, finally falling gently into the tangled flower bed. Satisfied, I continued on my way.
Although I’ve thought of it from time to time through decades of springtimes since, I’ve never shared the moment with anyone until right now. And after all this time I think that however mundane or unimportant the episode itself, it remains vivid in memory because of my ironclad certainty of how it would play out. I’ve rarely been so sure of anything since.
And I’ve never vandalized another tulip.
