"Another March"

    I haven't read Jesse Stuart's "Another April" since I taught it to my dear  seventh graders back in the early 1960's.  And it's not yet April, but the theme of the story nevertheless strikes a chord. Back then, I realized that my twelve-year old students were too young to fully understand the story, but I, from my 22-year-old viewpoint, thought I grasped the meaning completely. I did, but in an entirely different context, that being the poignancy of past times were  about someone else, not myself. 

   Stuart narrates the story from the viewpoint of himself as a young child, in his home state of Tennessee and his parents' farmhouse. His mother's father lives with them, and each year  of course grows a year older. The boy's young self doesn't fully comprehend  what is happening, or the inevitability of what is to happen. His grandfather's work days are over, so he can no longer be out and about doing farm work. Each April of late, when the long winter is coming to an end, and the snow starts to melt, the grandfather ventures out, surveying the property and the animals. The young boy accompanies him, welcomed events  to both grandfather and child. 

   The boy remembers these April outings as always being the same, walking the length of the property, visiting the animal enclosures, picking up fallen tree branches to scratch the backs of the pigs who come to the fence to greet them: he is probably  unaware that their outings may have become shorter, both in distance walked and in time spent outside.

  This April, things seem different. The boy is struck by the fact that his mother is dressing her father for the outdoors just as she does for him, buttoning his coat and tying his scarf to ward off the chill of the April weather. Even more different than from past years, the boy's mother tells him to stay inside, to let his grandfather take the April tour by himself. They watch from the window. The boy notices his grandfather is walking very slowly and does not go very far, seems to want to stay in sight of the house.

   This story used to remind me of the elderly relatives I had known. In particular, the setting seemed very like my grandmother's old homestead. I remembered when she used to walk with Helen and us through what they called the orchard, and to the gardens on the land to the side of their house, and to the nearby chicken coop. I don't remember when those walks ended during our visits there, but in her later years, I see her only sitting in her chair at the kitchen table. She died when I was twelve years old. I remembered my Uncle Joe, who lived with us when we were young. It seems we followed him around the property all day; he always seemed to have a hoe in his hand, digging trenches to let water flow out of the driveway, hacking weeds, planting lettuce and radishes.

    So I knew a thing or two about old people and the way they would welcome the arrival of spring after a long hard winter. I just came inside from a walk around the yard. The sun is trying to shine, but it's still cold and breezy. I buttoned my coat, put on a hat, and gloves. I didn't want to risk falling on slippery slopes, so did not go all the way around the house; there is still snow on the ground. I picked up a few broken winter-kill branches and flung them down the bank, but left the heavier ones, not wanting to lose my balance as I tossed them. That happened to a loved one not so very long ago. I didn't stay outside  long. In another month, there will be Another April.