Musings on a Frosty May Morning

Snow fell in New York City early this morning tying the city’s record for the latest snowfall in spring.  So, it has happened before?—yes, back in May 1977.  We may have had a snowflake or two here in Maryland last night as well.  When I awoke this morning and saw the frost, I thought, maybe, like Rip Van Winkle, I had slept through spring and summer and it was now autumn.  That called forth James Whitcomb Riley’s poem:  When the Frost is on the Punkin.

“There’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and the buzzin’ of the bees;

But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.”

I came fully awake to spring, however, when I looked out the kitchen window and saw the second iris bloom of the season.  Though plummeted by the rain of yesterday and chilled by frost this morning it still stood tall radiating what an iris is supposed to radiate—a rainbow of hope.  Seeing the blue iris caused me to think of something Kirk Douglas had written in his book, Climbing the Mountain:  My Search for Meaning. I had a hard time finding his words in my Notes of Note books, but finally….here it is:

“The biggest spur in my interest in art came when I played van Gogh in the film, “Lust for Life.”  The role affected me deeply. I was haunted by this talented genius who took his own life, thinking he was a failure.  How terrible to paint pictures and feel that no one wants them.  How awful it would be to write music that no one wants to hear.  Books that no one wants to read.  And how would you like to be an actor with no part to play, and no audience to watch you.  Poor Vincent—he wrestled with his soul in the wheat field of Auvrs-sur-Oise, stacks of his unsold paintings collecting dust in his brother’s house.  It was all too much for him, and he pulled the trigger and ended it all….As I write this, I look up at a poster of his “Irises”—a poster from the Getty Museum.  It’s a beautiful piece of art with one white iris sticking up among a field of blue ones.  They paid a fortune for it, reportedly $53 million.  And poor Vincent, in his lifetime, sold only one painting (400 francs or $80 dollars today)….”

Two irises are blooming today—just two—but more are about to break forth in a variety of shapes and colors.  All the irises in our back yard came originally from my Mother’s Iris Gardens in New Jersey…and tomorrow is Mother’s Day.