First Days

White Cherry Blossoms. Photo by Alexa Gaul.

I grew up in a rented farm house on State Route 30 in Canton, Ohio. Our home was the oldest of four, all built by the same family. When first constructed, it was probably surrounded by grass and corn. But it was the start of the automobile era and the Lincoln Highway passed within 30 feet of the front door. As the years passed, property was cleared and, one by one, new homes were built, first on one side of the road and then the other.

My father, an engineer, moved us into this home in the fall of 1966 so that he’d be closer to his work. Of the many memories I have of this place and my growing up there, I have one special vivid memory from, I think, the summer after my 6^th grade year.

It’s about 9 in the morning on a bright summer day and I’m walking downstairs into the living room. As I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs, I can see that the blinds are open and the windows are up. The front door is open and I can hear the traffic from the nearby highway through the screen door. A soft breeze is blowing through the house and everything indoors is lit by sunlight.

It’s funny but, in my mind’s eye, I can’t see my family. I remember that it’s a weekday and the house is buzzing. Dad has left for work and everyone is up. The TV in the living room is on and someone, maybe my youngest sister, is watching the morning kiddies’ shows. There’s music coming from the stereo in the dining room (that would be my other sister or maybe my younger brother). I can hear one of the morning talk shows on the smaller TV in the kitchen (Mom’s in there). I don’t hear any crying, but my baby brother is probably awake in his bassinet in the breakfast room off the kitchen.

I see myself crossing the living room to the screen door, turning the latch, and walking out onto the front porch. The screen door slams lightly behind me and the sounds from the house are drowned out by the feel of the warm air. I step off the porch onto the grass and turn right into the side yard. As I do, it’s as if I’m stepping out of one existence and into another.

There are only a few trees in the yard. The first and closest is a not-so-straight Weeping Willow that grew long and angled out toward the road. That day the wind blew through the low branches so that I could both see and hear the rustle. The other trees, three of them, all just along the house, were cherry trees. Now in full bloom, it’s the moving white blossoms that catch my attention.

I walk over to the straightest and sturdiest of the trees. The white flowers hang only a few inches from my head. I reach up and pull one of the branches closer. I stare intently at the center of the petals, taking in every detail.

Time seems to stop. 

Then the breeze picks up again and I’m aware of the moving branches. It’s like I’m waking up and the memory stops there.

I’ve thought about that particular moment a lot, especially over the last few years. It always comes to mind just as May is coming to an end. At the time, there was no big event going on in my life. Why should I remember that day and that moment? I think it was because that day was the first day of the first full week of summer vacation. Not the first day after school was out, but the first day of the first week.

That particular day felt like the real start of something new. I had no expectations and no idea what I was going to do. But to get started, I had to open the door and walk outside.

Sounds like a metaphor for life, doesn’t it?