First Spring

Word count:  1057 (includng the quote & the indents)





‘Time it was, oh what a time it was:  a time of innocence, a time of confidences.  Long ago, it must be long ago.  I have a photograph.  Preserve your memories; they’re all that’s left you.’

                                                                                                                                                 Art Garfunkel

Paradise Cove Entry –First Spring

         After a long, white winter, the first day of spring arrived.  And it fell smack in the middle of the week we had off for Easter break.  Russ suggested we spend the day driving up the old Route 7.  We lived in different towns, miles apart so it was a luxury to have an entire day together.  A luxury we were determined to make the most of. 

         The day dawned, bright, sunny and surprisingly warm for March.  Russ pulled into the driveway on time.  I called goodbye to my mom and ran out to meet him.  We were off.

         It was to be a glorious day.  We had slipped the noose of authority and had a tank full of gas.  We were eighteen (well, I would be in another few weeks), about to graduate from high school and fabulously in love.  What more could we ask for?

         We exited the Merit Parkway in Norwalk and headed north up the old thoroughfare.  Before the turnpike, parkway and new interstate had been built; Route 7 had been a Mecca for tourists.  Lined with cafes, guest cabins and antique stores, it had represented the Connecticut countryside to the New Yorkers who flocked to it for summer outings and fall leaf-peeping. 

But even by 1970, the pendulum had swung.  People wanted faster, wider roads and higher speed limits.  So, Route 7 had started down a slippery slope—although it still retained a certain cache of shabby-chicness. 

         We skimmed along the byway; laughing and talking.  We stopped at any antique stores or second hand shops that caught our eye, and poked playfully through their dusty contents.  Russ found several old glass insulators from telephone poles.  And I found a fiery orange enamel coffeepot.  It was missing its stem and basket—so as a percolator, it was useless.  But for some reason I loved it.  He bought it for me, saying I could take it to college in the fall—to remember our day.  Somewhere along the way we stopped for a snack before we continued , now in search of a quaint spot to be alone.

         There is something especially beautiful about spring in New England.  The gray bare bones of tree limbs stand stark against the bright blue sky punctuated with fluffy cotton clouds.  Dark, damp earth gives birth to the verdant greens of skunk cabbages, princess pine and velvety mosses.  And everywhere, there is water—bubbling springs, trickling brooks and run-off from melting snow.

         All these elements blended to pledge the promise of new life from the quickening land.  However, as in so many things, the oath never ripened to fulfillment—never lived up to the promise made.  Warm, sunny days and cool, moist nights make for an abundance of lush, green growth.  But spring rains and increasing heat cause the plants to grow too fast, to become spindly and seedy—quick to brown and whither once the spring has passed.

         Eventually we found a spot with room to pull off the road to park and a sheltered glade filled with the burgeoning harbingers of the future.  It even had a bridge spanning a narrow stream.  Russell, still noble and idealistic—at least in my naïve eyes—produced a blanket from the trunk, reached for my hand and led me to our trysting place. 

         And I, so young and trusting, followed gladly.  But then I loved him so—believed him in all things—I would have followed him into the very bowels of hell itself had he asked.  He was my love—my life. 

         Trust is a strange thing.  Given gladly, it can evaporate as quickly as a puff of smoke if violated.  For your heart—the delicate eggshell porcelain vessel of your life—is more fragile than you know.  The cup, once broken, can never be repaired—but lies in shards around what is left of your soul.

         Hand in hand, we walked until we found the perfect spot.  Then he spread the blanket, dropped down, pulling me with him.  Strong arms encircled me and held me tight.  Surely this was heaven.  We were so close that I could feel the beating of his heart.  In fact, it seemed our hearts are beating in tandem.

         His kisses were magic.  Soft, warm lips pressed against mine.  His gentle hands petted me, stroking my hair and playing with my curls.  The wonderful weight of him on me made me secretly glad I was ‘the weaker sex’.  He was my master—although, I would never have told him that. 

         His warm tongue slithered between my lips, and I opened myself to him.  Do not turn away, gentle reader.  We were young and in love—yet chaste.  But there was still heat in those stolen kisses. 

         Surely, no one had felt as we did—love each other as passionately as we did.  This joy was our own invention: an emotion as new as the morning light and as pure as the spring water babbling beside us. 

         It was an epiphany!  I had dated before Russell.  I had been dating him for over two years now.  But before I had been ‘in love with love’—enamored with the idea of passion.  This was different.  This was real.  I stood at the very brink of my future and, blindly even gladly, leapt into it.

         To this day, I remember the turmoil of sensations which enveloped me.  The brilliant sun, that glinted through the skeleton branches; the water dancing over the smooth stones in the creek next to us; and the rich, earthy smell of new life forcing its way up from damp ground.  Everything spun a magical web around me—around us.  It was the first spring of love.

         It’s been forty years since that blissful day.  We wouldn’t marry for another four and a half years.  We would stay married for nearly twenty-eight years.  And I’ve been divorced for almost eight years now.  But that day—that glorious day, with its bubble of rapturous joy, still shimmers in my mind.  And that silly enamel coffee pot still sits in my kitchen.