April Anniversaries

I remember dates, anniversaries, birthdays, memorable events.  Part of that is just a good memory for numbers (Rebecca is like me in this), part of it is a tendency to notice something and have it stick in my mind forever.

Before April 18, 1984 I did not have any particularly strong associations in April.  But when Dad died, that began a long collection of April memories.  On the day of his funeral, there were only the tiniest blurs of leaves on the trees (like this week), we had only onions in the field and they were only barely sprouting, there was wild mustard blooming everywhere (that Nina and others collected as flowers) and it was a clear, cool day.  Sweatshirt weather.  We walked, carrying the heavy box made of rough cut wood from the cottage through the mess of sheds to the farm road -- all the way up to the Moutoux Shed Patch to the steep hillside in the woods. It was a long and sober walk. 

And after that April seemed like a super sad month to me, even though it was also the most beautiful month in the spring, bouncing between cool grey days and teasing humid warmth, with trees blooming in steady sequence: white, pink, deep pink and purple.

So when Jon and I decided to get married, I said I wanted to create a reason to have happy memories in April and we chose the 28th.  That day was cool, clear, the azaleas were busting out, and my mother had babied a gorgeous head of Buttercrunch lettuce so that it was fully ready to be my wedding bouquet.  It was a lovely day in every possible way.

Two years later, somewhat by chance, Benjamin was born on the 14th, the same day as his grandmother's birthday.  This put April solidly in the win column.  Benjamin was the best possible event in April.  Like his father, he does not feel particularly interested in celebrating his own birth, but as his mother, I celebrate it every year.  Really, giving birth to a baby is about as momentous as it gets.

As I mentioned in an earlier story, I have distinct, strong memories of the week that we first learned of Jon's cancer diagnosis.  Of course I could not help associating this with Dad's quick decline, so April once again had a dark side.  While Jon struggled to get his balance back (two scary trips to the hospital for two different issues, related to his diagnosis but not exactly about the cancer), I fit in planting onions with Carrie.  I remember driving the tractor, laying plastic in the Horse Pasture while Carrie walked behind, and telling her not to worry a bit if the tractor driver was crying -- I had left Jon in the hospital with someone else and had sprinted home to get some work done.  Crying was a luxury I could squeeze in while on the tractor but not while I was sitting in the same room as he was. 

April is all about planting onions.  We have to get them planted as fast as we can stand to do it.  It is the time of year when we are not quite ready to bend over for more than a few hours a day, plus it rains about three days out of seven, so it takes two or three weeks to get the job done.  By hand, we plant about 10,000 individual sweet onion plants (think about planting individual grass blades, with roots, six inches apart) and about 5000 leek plants (ditto) and about 15,000 storage onions in sets of three.  By the time we get to the storage onions, we are zooming along.

Last year, on Dad's yartzeit, I happened to be at the beach with Nell and Nancy and Hannah.  And we all went to a tiny synagogue together and said Kaddish for him on Shabbat morning.  It was entirely meaningful.

Now there's Michael L's birthday, there's Carrie's birthday. There are birthdays of people I haven't seen in years, and birthdays of babies that were all expected at about the same time as Benjamin (their mothers would be so surprised to know that I think of those babies -- Rebecca daughter of Kathryn, Marie daughter of Jean).  You would think I would clear out some of those dust bunnies, but they just pile up around the edges.

I always compare the progress of the trees to the April we had in 1984 and to the next year, and to last year.  There is a weeping cherry just outside our living room window that bloomed almost three weeks late this time.  Who needs all this data?  Nobody. 

One more memory:  this year for the first time possibly ever, Jon and I went to Yizkor at the end of Passover.  These early morning services are extremely lightly attended.  We were part of a group of six including the cantor.  We went to remember Jon's dad, and everyone else.  I learned something that I never knew -- they read the names of everyone who has died since the last Yizkor.  So we remembered Don's father and Joe Blumberg and Leon, among others.  When she asked if there were other names to add, I said, "Darryl Wright."  And so I will now always remember that at Passover, I think of Darryl.  And I am thinking that I should put his name on the memorial board on the wall.  Maybe I will let Jon put Leon's name up first, so we can keep things chronologically correct.

Anyway, in April I am in a constant state of remembering, more than any other month of the year.  And in choir we are singing a song using that poem that always makes me cry.  We will sing it at a Holocaust Remembrance event and there will be tears.

In the rising of the sun and in its going down, we remember them.
In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter, we remember them.
In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring, we remember them.
In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer, we remember them.
In the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn, we remember them.
In the beginning or the year and when it ends, we remember them.

When we are weary and in need of strength,
When we are lost and sick at heart,
When we have joys we yearn to share, we remember them.

So as long as we live, they too shall live,
For they are a part of us as we remember them.