They say that April is the cruelest month, but sometimes March earns that title. According to myth, even if the groundhog saw his shadow on that day back in February, we should be seeing the end of winter by now. Some years there are probably robins patrolling the lawn in search of grubs and other food to provide energy for nest-building. We will have had some days with the temperature high enough to get rid of the piles of dirty snow left along the sides of streets and in rural ditches and some warm rain to wash away the winter grime and coax a few green shoots above ground. We could still have a nasty blizzard.
But, despite damp winds and chilly days, I still like March.
Having been born in April, I missed March 1934, but I’ve seen a lot of Marches since then and hardly any of them were alike. Probably the first memorable March was the one when my youngest sister was born. I was nearly eight years old, the perfect age for children to be fascinated by babies. And fascinated I was. Little Ruthie Ann, as we called her then, was born March 9 and had a head of silky, wavy hair that made her appear to be wearing a fur cap. I was old enough to hold Ruthie on my lap and even to feed her a bottle once she was several weeks old. I got to help with her bath (which took place in the big kitchen sink – I have pictures.) I spent a lot of time lying on a blanket on the living-room floor beside her as she learned to roll over and, eventually, sit up. I played pat-a-cake with her, and sang songs and recited nursery rhymes.
Another March, the year she was four, we moved from the only home she had known and the only one that I remembered, to an acreage on the edge of town. It was a cold, damp day and it snowed intermittently as my parents and uncles carried the furniture and boxes from the old house to the pickup and then to the much more spacious house only about six blocks away.
The March of my senior year in high school was special in a different way. I had found a notice on the bulletin board by the principal’s office announcing merit scholarships at the University of Iowa in Iowa City and asked the school secretary for application forms. The principal tried to talk me out of applying, then reluctantly gave me the papers. I assumed he thought that my parents would not approve of the idea, even though I was near the top of my class as far as grades were concerned. Nobody, however, had ever mentioned the possibility of my going off to college.
I filled out the forms and wrote the required essay as to why I wanted to attend college and why I needed financial assistance in the form of a scholarship. My dad signed where required and I went to the courthouse to ask a family friend who worked there to notarize everything. The papers were mailed and in March I received a letter instructing me to take the test that would be administered in Des Moines on such and such a date.
One of my classmates had also qualified for the tests and Dad drove us both to Des Moines on the appointed day. That classmate was Bernard Slofer, whose family was from Solon and we were both awarded scholarships and spent the summer preparing for college. I had never been farther East than Oskaloosa at that time and had only a vague idea just where Iowa City was. All I knew was that a dream had come true for me. A dream that opened up new worlds and potential for me and would change my life dramatically from what it might otherwise have been.
One of my college roommates asked me to be a bridesmaid at her wedding, which took place during Christmas break of my senior year. At the reception, I met a young accountant who did work for my roommate’s father who owned a department store. I stayed with the roommate’s parents for another week after the wedding, the young accountant drove me back to my home town and we made a date for New Year’s Eve. Letters and phone calls followed, along with several long drives between Iowa City and Spencer where he lived. We were married in March and decided to live in Iowa City.
Those are some of the reasons I like March, even if it is often unpleasant and unpredictable.
A former volunteer and substitute teacher in the Solon schools, Milli is an artist and poet who lives near Morse where she also creates unique greeting cards and handmade books.