Serviceberry Spring

Now that summer is nearly upon us, I want to say how much I appreciated Spring this year, when it finally came. The winter wasn’t particularly harsh, but it lingered long like an unwanted guest who can’t take the hint. Every time it was out the door, it forgot its keys, or had to take a leak, or wanted a cup of coffee for the road. And each time it returned, it brought its chilly demeanor and lashing tongue.

I remarked to a friend that I had begun to understand why a few thousand years ago, our forebears may have picked an unpopular neighbor to conk on the noggin and dump into a bog, to appease the fickle gods and make Spring come already, dammit.

Not that I had been eyeing my neighbors to see who would make the best sacrifice, but I had thought about carving numbers onto stone lots.

I don’t re-read Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” often, but lately, I’ve been thinking about how the story captures the feeling of manufactured but inevitable fate, of how a society will behave as if they have no choice—because of how they believe they are expected to act—when the choice and responsibility is resolutely theirs.

No reason.

I did however, re-read “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas,” by Ursula K. Le Guin, as I am reading her selected stories, The Unreal and the Real, and it is the first story in the “Unreal” portion. I recommend re-reading it, if you haven’t done so recently. As with “The Lottery,” there are details easily forgotten; “Omelas” gets simplified in our memory, as a utopia powered by the suffering of a single child, and in recent criticisms, those who leave the city are somehow blamed for their inaction. Why don’t they stay and fight? People who’ve fought systemic problems, from Audrey Lorde to Andrew Vachss, have spoken of how it wears down the soul; those who have only dabbled in resistance minimize its toll.

I barely dabble. I planted a Serviceberry sapling, inspired by Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book about nature’s gift economy. My electricity provider offered free trees for Arbor Day, and a Shadbush Serviceberry was one of the choices. So I let them greenwash their natural gas burning industry by taking a free tree and planting it in my front yard, where I can watch it grow as I drink my morning coffee and play Wordle, as the Robins and Starlings march through my patchy clover-riddled lawn.

The previous owners planted zoysia and shore grass, which survive without water for long periods. I have never watered this lawn in four years, and we’ve been in a year-long drought. I also don’t weed it or fertilize or use pesticides. I love when dandelions bloom, or death cap mushrooms spring up with little umbrellas of doom.

I do water my Shadbush Serviceberry, which sounds like the name of a small town judge. Shadbush. Are the shad running? If you want to read a review of The Serviceberry that will make you want to read it, and then plant a dozen of them, this one is good:

The Honorable Harvest

I’ve read a few good books by friends, lately. Or at least, writers I know. My favorite of the bunch was The Hero of This Book by

Elizabeth McCracken

, a novel or memoir or neither, about her mother, who died a few years ago at a healthy old age. The grief was still fresh when she wrote it—like it is for me with my mother—who lived nearly as long, and died in a similar drawn-out way that left us feeling helpless and hopeless. Our moms were both characters and survivors; McCracken took her mother to London a few years before her death, and returned to the city afterward; I’m traveling to the Old Smoke soon myself, so I felt it was time to read it, even if it would inflame my grief. It hurt, but it was good. I wish I’d met Natalie.

If you want to read about my mother, I wrote this when the grief was raw. You have been warned.

Maggie

The Eastern Fence Lizards are out skittering, along with the chipmunks and other spring-mad creatures. The Robins are chasing each other, the Red-Winged Blackbirds are singing. No need to find a neighbor to nudge into the bog; winter has taken the hint and gone home.

Winter will be back. So keep a nice rock handy.