I stare at the picture in surprise.
It has a way of doing that. Taking you by surprise.
Today, as the snow continues to fall outside and people gaze out their windows in absolute disgust because it looks like an out of season Christmas card out there, I am scrolling through Facebook.
The date on the Facebook photo is April 20, 2016.
And as I stare at the photo the snowy scene outside disappears and I am back there again, to that golf course, standing on that green with my brother-in-law who had just made that coveted shot every golfer dreams about: a hole in one.
I remember it well.
It was a magical kind of day, the kind that embraced me with a warm hug, the kind of hug my sister gives, unabashed and without restraint, and it smelled sweet like tender shoots of newborn green grass, emerging shyly from winter’s cocoon.
I was dressed in a pink golf skirt and a white and navy-blue T-shirt. That T-shirt is not just any old T-shirt to me as it was presented as part of a media award for high school sports coverage. I remember sighing when I tugged it on, partly because it was a little snug and also because I remembered the feelings of pride and humility that tumbled about in my mind like clothes in a dryer after I was presented with that award.
Along with the pink skirt and navy and white T-shirt I am wearing a smile that the photographer, even with his phone, captured quite brilliantly. My brother-in-law, the hole-in-one guy, is also wearing that brilliant, isn’t life wonderful kind of smile.
I stare at the photo longer than I should have because, after all, I have stuff to do and, finally, I click ‘share’ so all my friends can see exactly what I was doing and where I was six years ago.
For everything, there is a season and a time for everything under the sun.
But, oh my goodness, the season of spring in 2022, seems to have been misplaced somehow. Where is the sunshine and the tender shoots of green grass and the crocuses? Where are the golf courses teeming with life? Where are the tiny buds that decorate the trees and bushes and promise of better days to come?
“I dunno”, says everyone.
The littlest grandson turned eight last week. We bought him a CD player and one of my loyal readers, bless his heart, sent him a CD with classic rock ‘n roll songs on it including American Pie.
Jacob was thrilled and spent most of Easter Sunday walking around with his earphones in listening to such songs as American Pie and Johnny Be Good.
“That kid was born in the wrong era,” somebody remarked.
I just smiled. For his grandma he was born in exactly the right era, bringing me back to a time when songs like American Pie and Johnny B Good ruled the rock ‘n roll scene.
I stare outside.
It is still snowing.
I do not get it, but faith and hope are as perennial as those wild roses that tumble about in roadside ditches, their beauty often completely obscuring barb wire fences.
I picture them in my mind. The roses. And I feel better. They will show up again. And golf courses will come to life.
And rock ‘n roll. It’s as perennial as the grass. Just like the roses.
Treena Mielke is a Central Alberta writer. She lives in Sylvan Lake with her family.