WINTER 2004George A. Crispin
Woodbury MM
t has been my habit for the last twenty-five years to arise at the crack of dawn. One morning this past winter dawn cracked early as I opened my eyes to see the yard in front of the window had turned to a soft gray and the outline of objects became visible. Almost simultaneous with a growing consciousness entered the flooding realization of what the day would bring. It would be a full day, brimming with so much to do and so little time. There would be so many passed deadlines, so many unfulfilled obligations, so many loose ends, and so many incomplete tasks. The weight of this realization crowded my mind as I hoisted myself out of bed and prepared to meet the day’s burgeoned agenda.
My initial impressions proved correct. After the morning routine of coffee and breakfast, starting a fire in the wood stove, and chores, I began to face the cascading obligations that rumbled toward me. Mental work comes easier for me in the morning; thus, unanswered mail was addressed. Then there were those few papers still to grade to quell the anxiety of students. After the mental items, there was housecleaning. Left undone for days the house looked like a pack of wild dogs had been turned loose in the living room. Outside the packed snow in one corner of the gable had to be dislodged, lest it cause a leak. Then, the rising muck in the stalls had to be cleaned out and new bedding laid down. A wagon of wood had to be cut to feed the stove. And, of course, it was trash day, and last week I had not put out the trash. The list of jobs in need of completion looked like a highway that one knows does not stop at the horizon.
The day was gray and cold, matching my mood, as late afternoon approached, and with it the realization that however hard I worked, or fast, the tasks would not get done. This created an obvious impatience. It was a bad time for my son to ask, “Daddy, be a horsie.” I knew what that meant. He had invited his friend, Alexander, over to take advantage of the snow and open space. Lacking hills in the area, this meant only one thing. To go sledding, my son and his friend needed a horse. I was the horse.
I am too busy, I thought. I am in a bad mood. The time is not right. There are too many things yet to do. Darkness will be upon us soon. My arsenal of excuses was massive. I almost said no. But I heard my voice saying, “Yes.” Why? Snows come sporadically and infrequently in this climate. Carleton will be a child only once. This special moment with my son is one I cannot let pass, no matter how much work is left undone.
Thus, I hitched a lunge line to the sled and around my shoulders and heard my son’s exalted voice, “Getty-up, Horsie!” The first jolt was hardest, but with momentum my strides became easier, and through the snow we raced, the wind striking our faces, the blood rushing for greater warmth, the mounting exhilaration that comes from childhood’s simple joys. “Faster, faster!” they shouted. Around our path through the woods we dashed, the runners creating tracks that would make other trips easier. It was an inspiring moment, and through the creativity of a child’s mind I became a giant Percheron heaving a sled through mounds of snow, shaking a shaggy mane, snorting with gusto into the frosted air.
That night, when finally my head hit the pillow and body lay at rest, for the first time since morning, I thought about the day. What importance had the day’s events wrought? At first it pleased me that some ground had been gained against the long list of things I had to do. But as I relaxed, another, more subtle, reality came into focus.
I remembered my father, how busy on the farm he was, and how seldom he played with me, and how few memories I had of our play. Yet there was that time, long ago in my childhood. It was not winter, but summer. He took me into the haymow, up in the barn, where the loose hay was piled in mountains waiting to be thrown down to the cattle. There, in his lap, we slid down the hay mountain. Safe in his arms, we slid at what was for me breathtaking speed, over and over until we were both tired. That is the only memory I have of my father playing with me. There may have been other times, but they are lost to my memory. Thus, that moment is especially treasured.
What is important in a day? Many things need to be done. But what can be more important than the memories we create for our children? The piles of tasks in need of doing will go on, but they will wait. As I closed my eyes with the on-coming sleep, I heard a child’s voice cry, “Getty-up, Horsie!”
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Sunday, November 14, 2004 at 12:40 AM
