By the time you're reading this issue of Raleigh Review, spring will be sprung, at least in the Carolinas. If the almanac can be trusted, we've had our last frost. The irises are in the middle of their bloom. It's time for me to break off and plant a few more pads from the spineless prickly pear I hauled three years ago from my mom's yard in Texas. There I am digging a hole, wiping my forehead with a muddy hand and pulling at my shirt, saying something we always say, like, "It's not the heat. It's this humidity."
But right now, as I write this and as our materials for this issue are due, it's January. There's a serious and some are saying dangerous winter storm looming over much of the country, even the south. Forecasters are predicting ice for our region. The Walmart is sold out of bread and bottled water. There's lots of talk about generators, the grid, firewood. Students are already asking if classes will be canceled.
We've only just started a new semester, but the first assignments are coming up due, and you can feel the resolve waning. I try not to let on how much I relate. The new year doesn't feel so new anymore. A couple of weeks ago, hopes high, I bought one of those journals, the kind that makes you realize that not only are you ungrateful, you're also incapable of what promises to be a very simple task of writing a couple of sentences a day. Each page is a list of prompts and blanks that should take you about five minutes to complete, and still it's too much. I did it three times, I think. January 1-3. The journal predicted I would falter. I see that now in the way the pages are left undated.
Under the date line, there are three more lines to list what you're grateful for and another blank for your favorite moment of the day. And even though I've only written three times, I've got to say, the journal had an impact. I often find myself identifying my favorite moment. Today's was talking with a neighbor through his screen door, him stepping outside to hear me, he said, over his TV. If I were to go back to the journal, I'd write about that, the way we hollered about hats and blessings and the summer that is sure to come eventually.
But I want to tell you about another favorite moment, one that happened a week or so ago.
The thing they don't tell you about having a one-year-old is that they want to do things they can't do and because of this, it's hard sometimes to keep them entertained, especially when you're trying not to let them watch TV, and especially when-like now in January-it's cold outside. You find yourself doing weird things like writing and performing songs about the Fisher Price farmer and his cow friend. You find yourself concerned about the lack of enthusiastic applause you're sure you've earned for this original composition, and you return to the song to revise it yet again before the next performance that oddly leaves you a little weak in the knees. You think you probably haven't written enough about the cow. That's the problem. This is just one of the weird things you do on a cold afternoon in January.
You also go on what you call nature walks, which are really quick trips to the front porch where you call stray cats and wave at strangers and try to guess what color car will pass next before you get cold and have to go back inside.
