The Shadows of Past Springs

Those of you who are not lucky enough to live in Oregon may have a hard time appreciating the excitement I experience waking up to a sunny day in spring.  I woke up today to a cloudless day, full sunshine, clear crisp air, and my nine year old twin granddaughters climbing on our bed full of hugs and laughter.  When we got up I opened all the windows for the first time since late last fall.  We went to walk our dog Brandy, an eleven year old Golden Retriever who acts like a pup when the grandchildren visit.  She forgets her age.  Gone the slow and sometimes painful looking walk, the very frequent naps.  In their presence she appears to be fully awake, need little sleep, and prances around like in the old days.  It has been a day full of grace and light, made all the more special because somewhere in Florida my friend Rosita woke up to a day of freedom after having spent more than half a century of oppression in Cuba.  For the month of May, at least, she gets to visit her son and live in the presence of liberty.

Do you think about the gift of your freedom?

A couple of years ago I went to the Willamette Writers Conference in Portland.  I was there with members of my writing group.  We decided to go to dinner at a lovely restaurant next to a river.  We were all having a wonderful carefree time, for in addition to belonging to a group we enjoy each other’s company immensely.  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw a boat approaching.  Among all the boats full of people enjoying a beautiful sunny day, this particular boat caught my attention.  There was a bearded man in the boat, alone, and he seemed to be looking our way.

I resumed talking to my friends, but my attention became divided and the carefree feeling of moments before was replaced with a feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach.  Every once in a while I looked at the bearded man now heading our direction with some degree of weariness.  All the while I kept on interacting with my friends who seemed  oblivious to the threat I was perceiving.

Then it happened: the bearded man bent over.  The world around me disappeared.  My friends’ voices faded and my attention was riveted on the bent over man.  I waited helplessly as he reached for his rifle and looked for a place to run to where I could lead my friends to safety before the madman began his violent rampage.  In the space of a breath or two I was transported to the world of terror that I had left a half a century before.  I started to get up and was going to yell “Run, follow me!”  just as the bearded man sat up again, without a rifle or grenade.  Instead, he held his fishing pole in one hand, and set his tackle box next to him with the other.  Slowly, I began to breathe, surprised that I had not noticed when I had stopped breathing.  I began to hear my friends voices again, began to leave the terror and come back to the present into a world of love and laughter.  No one around me seemed aware of the world of fear I had returned from.  They had grown up in freedom.  Things like that didn’t occur to them.  They didn’t know the kinship that was possible between a man on a boat and death.

I had a magical day today.  I had a magical day because there are no men in olive green watching my family,  wishing me ill, wanting to hurt me or my family.  I had a magical day because I walked with my grandchildren without having to wonder if bullets would start flying around us, or if a bomb would explode near us and hurt us. And I had a magical day because for the first time in decades, Piti, Olguita,  Rosita and I are all safe from experiencing the terror, in a land that with all its arguable faults and debates over a President’s birth certificate,  allows us to live in the absence of constant fear and out of the shadow of past springs.

Do you think about the gift of your freedom?

Are you grateful?