We are reminded that life is good when bright sunshine lifts the slumber out of these old brown hillsides.
We know life is good when ten-month-old granddaughter contributes smiles to our quiet enjoyment.
Then she leaps with joy in her jumperoo.
Just outside the glass door, Appalachian Spring bursts forth in sunshine, warmth, and quiet celebration of a winter that is gone, gone, gone, and again I say unto thee, gone!
Gone with the snow, gone with the tragi-tales of our human's wintr'ous struggle . . . at least for a season, at least for today, at least for a few moments. . . while spring tumbles in outside . . .
And lo, what is this amazing sound on the inside?. . . here in the inside of our mountain home . . . Harken: Violins, clarinets! cellos, flutes, even trumpets sending out yon first tender shoots of sonorous celebration, as first strains of mountainside spring penetrate the forest floor outdoors, accompanied orchestrally by vibrant woodwinds and reeds. They agree to ascend in jubilant rondos, ultimately trotting toward some old Shaker praise.
Life abounds with simple gifts if you wait for them, and even more sweetly if you have worked for them. Now we pause to appreiate their arrival as the shoots come burstin' out all over!
Yes, Life is good when bright sunshine lifts the slumber out of these old brown hillsides.
And reflections unfold in memory of springs long ago. . . a different time, a different place. . .
Many and many a year ago I was a clueless college student way down south, down in the bayou country where the coming of spring was too soon overtaken by the fierce heat of summer.
I would escape the routinous sweating of academic chores. Slipping into the cool music listening room at LSU Student Union, I’d request a big vinyl platter whereon was somehow wondrously tracked the sedate, celebratory strains of Aaron Copland’s masterpiece orchestral work—Appalachian Spring. At that time I listened to Eugene Ormandy conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra. This morning, however, the quick search lands us on:
While listening, I am remembering . . . escaping through miracle of sound-tracked vinyl, that early-'70's sweltering Southern day. I would dream, it would seem, of days ahead when I would experience Appalachian Spring, the real thing!
And now that I have seen, oh, forty-or-so of these Springs, as an inhabitant, I find myself once again sacramentally satisfied with the blooming outcome.
I was pleased when, 39-years ago, my chosen bride of Appalachia (a New Jersey transplant) bloomed forth in her wonderful hips and delivered the beginnings of our family.
According to that first child’s January birthday, it must have been about this time of year—early spring—when we conceived him.
Sap’s rising, yes indeed . . . was then, is now.
'Tis true. Life is good when again you celebrate Appalachian spring's crawling-in. The season sneaks in through splashing outside sunshine. While tiny granddaughter babbles here on the floor, we revisit our old musical companion once more: Appalachian Spring.
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