At the low ebb time of living

Editor's note: This column originally was published Feb. 3, 1991.

Well booted, mittened, coated and capped, I ventured over to the creek recently to determine if I could see any form of wildlife. At least that was my stated purpose. I think, in truth, I just wanted to get outside for a little longer time than it takes me to go to the garage, the mail box or to take the garbage out. Our outside existence is at low ebb in February.

I thought last summer's muskrat might be sunning himself on an old snag protruding from the water. No muskrat. I looked then for the duck-of-some-sort I disturbed on early morning summer walks. No duck of any sort. Maybe some spiderwebs stretched across the arched bridge? No webs.

Four crows went crocheting across the skies. Only one squirrel on the ground in the park. Bleak time, February.

When I stopped under the big sycamore, I saw that the buds were tight and slightly swollen with returning life. "Well, of course," I mumbled. "Old muskrat and duck and spider are still at rest in what they consider a warm place. Things with roots begin to stir first."

Down deep in the darkness of soil there are little stirrings, tiny watery gurglings as the roots wake up hungry and begin to feed. Is it the temperature, the light (what light?), or some built-in timepiece man has never discovered that awakens the roots?

Before returning to the warmth of home, I examined the lilac buds. They, too, swell early and, sure enough, they had. On the south side of the garage the old King Alfreds were up an inch, pointing bravely and in unison toward the sky as if to silently show me from whence cometh their early appearance.

Last year was not a good dogwood blooming year. I think this year will make up for it. On one tiny sprig about the size of my hand I counted 16 potential blossoms.

Around the base of last summer's house leek sedum stalks are clusters of little green "cabbages," testimony of things to come.

These are all just little hints of spring. Is it still a life indoors month, a month that toughens us. So, come on February, throw your snow and ice and sleet at us. Toughen us so we'll hear better the song of the returning meadowlark, inhale more deeply of the lilacs, taste more lingeringly the rhubarb pie, and, above all, withstand the tragedy of war.

Between my cricket rocker and hassock, with the picture of "The Fairy Tale" hanging above, a war is going on inside a Magnavox shell. I can almost feel the sands of the desert in my eyes, smell the oil on the water or smoke from its burning. Certainly I hear the rockets and see their red glare. The mournful wail of the warning sirens, even though thousands of miles away, stops me in my tracks. Even the refrigerator and furnace seem to pause until the moment is over.

Sometimes an unnameable guilt washes over me as I sit here in a warm comfortable home and watch this war as if it were some kind of entertainment. Some scenes I see over and over and I shamefully complain as I do when old sitcoms and serials are into their rerun time slots.

When I first learned of the gladiators, a long time ago, and read how the watchers in the stands could indicate by a thumbs up or thumbs down signal whether the conquered one should be allowed to live, I thought that seeing someone killed as a form of entertainment was the most horrible thing that could happen. Are we getting close to that again?

When such thoughts fog my mind I tell myself that war is going on somewhere nearly all the time, but each one does come to an end some time. At this low ebb time of living, let us remember that, and remember, too, that stirrings in the roots are invisible but a prelude to the high tide of life.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.