Spring Surprises

I'm usually in Russia this time of the year, and although it's officially spring in both places, the greening in Arkansas has a considerable head start on its Russian counterparts, still hiding under coverings of snow.  Since buying our house in Greenbrier three years ago, I've never seen our five acres change from a landscape of spikey gray branches and crunchy brown leaves to a palette of brightness, as if Van Gogh were adding new colors with strokes of his brush each day.
 My usual end-of-May arrival finds a yard well on its way to summer, and I've never realized what I've missed!  As I watch the daffodils, tulips and irises turn their yellow, red, purple and white heads to face one another in the flower beds, I wonder if they are catching up after a winter's worth of solitude, waiting for their familiar friends to pop up and greet them.  And the trees. . . who knew that we have a redbud with the deepest purple blooms, making amethysts look pale in comparison, four dogwoods just leafing out, keeping their colors hidden for a few days more - white or pink, and a mystery (fruit tree?) with delicate, lime green leaves and fuschia pink blossoms, reminding me of one of my grandmother's Easter hats?  I gasped yesterday to, joyfully, find new life in plants that I thought I had killed last year.  How did the hostas around the bird bath survive the lawnmower or the hydrangea find the strength to grow new leaves after having been cut back to mere matchstick stubs, not to mention the azaleas showing tiny buds after being whacked within an inch of their lives last July, by a gardener wanna-be?
I check on these wonders of nature each morning, sipping a cup of tea as I walk among them.  I even find myself talking to them with an occasional compliment ("Wow, what an amazing pink blossom!") or encouraging word ("Look at how much you've grown in just one day!").  The nice thing about being on 5 acres is that I'm too far away from my nearest neighbor, who might wonder why I'm walking around the yard talking to myself.   But then. . who cares?
I pulled out my copy of Ralph Waldo Emerson's "Nature" essays the other day. The quote on the front, written in fern green letters, reads, "In the woods is perpetual youth."  The youth in my yard this spring fills me with delight and deep gratitude.

Boris, Natasha and I

Originally published in the Log Cabin Democrat (Conway, Arkansas). . . dated Feb. 25, 2010.)

I exit the stuffy air of the Moscow Krasnopresnenskaya metro station into a blast of winter coldness. I suck in a few snowflakes along with the freshness, adjust the black knitted hat over my ears, and head towards the nearest sidewalk.  The red brick walls of the U. S. Embassy come into view a couple of blocks away, and I quicken my pace. Bumper to bumper cars, mostly black, start and stop in three lanes to my left, edging their way up and down Konushkovskaya Shosse (street).  Drivers, with nothing better to do, honk their horns while carrying on urgent cell phone conversations.  People pass me. I pay little attention.  I feel insulated in my own world of goose down cinched at the neck with a heavy scarf.  Almost to the stoplight, I hear someone running behind me.  He yells something in Russian.  I keep walking. He yells again.  I keep walking.  Fast approaching me is a young woman dressed in a long black coat, stepping firmly in boots with 3-inch heels.  She raises her right palm, signaling me to stop. Glancing up at the changing green-to-red light on the corner, I realize that I have no choice. The man’s hurried footsteps slow behind me. He repeats the same Russian words. . . .words that weren’t covered in my five classes of “Survival Russian.”  The woman puts her hand on my shoulder as her pointed-toe designer boots meet my practical, but decidedly more comfortable, L.L. Bean hikers.  I pause, sandwiched between them. The same paralyzing fear that overtakes me when I’m on the top of a tall building peeking nervously over the edge grabs me, as I stand waiting for. . . the worst.  Where is the oversized SUV, with black-tinted windows, that will surely drive up, open its door, hesitate for seconds as the couple stuff me inside, then speed off?  Passport, money, cell phone, iPod, stash of Snickers bars in the top zippered section of my backpack. . .  what are they after?

Just about now would be the perfect time for a rescue. Images of James Bond on a motorcycle jumping over multiple cars in one graceful arc, or even Spiderman sweeping off the roof of the Stalin Sister down the street, cause my eyes to dart fleetingly, hopefully, in all directions. No such luck. I’m on my own. The fur of the woman’s hat flutters as the wind catches its black edges, and I notice her face for the first time.  Expecting harsh features, pointed chin, black piercing eyes topped by eyebrows that need to be plucked, (much like the villianess Natasha, of “Boris and Natasha” cartoon fame), I’m surprised to see a soft, rounded face, warm brown eyes and perfectly arched brows.  She stares.  I stare.  Pushing on my right shoulder, ever so gently, she nods toward her accomplice to my rear.  Allowing myself to be pivoted in his direction, I come face to face with the man who has been chasing me.  Instead of a squatty-bodied Boris with a black mustache, I meet a graying, middle-aged, slightly out-of-breath gentleman.  In his right hand, he holds something red.  He lifts it up to me like a peace offering, unsure I will accept his token.  But, wait, this looks familiar.  Fishing around in my pocket, I come up empty.  My gloves. . .gone!  Seeing my startled expression, he lifts the renegade pair closer to my hands, nodding for me to take them. Reaching gingerly, I look back and forth between Boris and Natasha’s quizzical faces.  “Spasiba bolshoi,” I say, grateful that I, at least, know how to say, “Thank you very much” in Russian. They leave, walking in opposite directions, strangers.  I stay, motionless, struck by an unexpected act of kindness . . .amidst the swirl of fresh snowflakes and my own thoughts.