Spring

The last bits of winter are going out fighting, and people are desperately drenched in monotone. But every year without fail, brilliant violet hyacinths bloom on the levy downtown. They start feebly, with only a few clusters, but as time progresses they spread to the entire steep slope of grass. There may be the occasional daffodil that deigns pop up, a bright spot of canary and cream in the midst of purple, but those aren’t important.

This specific genus of hyacinth is called grape hyacinths. The flowers come into fruition as fragrant, bulb-like clusters on the stem. Grape hyacinths are the first little rays of sunshine in spring, growing first amongst crocuses and the budding mists of green on trees. This is the Midwest, any weather goes. They’ve had to adapt to the random jumble of weather conditions, up against battering rain, furiously whipped wind, or late snow, still surviving in enough numbers to send their scent out into the rainy spring air.

Winter is old and worn out, no longer creating snowy fun or a pleasant, frisky chill that gets dogs to prance. Bundled against the wind that seems determined to be unpleasant, a walk seems like the best option, even though it’s like walking in a charcoal drawing done in a fifth-grade art class. In the midst of a smudgy and graphite grey world, the flowers offer a little bit of hope, and it’s glorious to climb the levy stairs and see them for the first time. If you look around the flowery stretch of the levy, you’ll see a sewer grate, juxtaposing with the dainty growth around it. It’s in an incredibly strange position, but it still seems eternal, despite its eccentricities. I suppose it has its reason for being where it is, whatever that may be. It juts out, its foundation creating a flat place for the top grate, creating a perfect little place to sit as soon as the cold eases up.

It’s in this desperate time my mother and I go outside to this sewer grate, overlooking the dismal city. We’ve been on the lookout for the flowers. Finally, finally, we see some of them. We’d hook our old dog to her leash and walk her up there for some fresh air. Her short hair isn’t good for Midwest winters, she was built for hunting on distant veldts. She has only been outside in short bursts for the past months, gangly legs rushing out to do her business then hurrying back inside. She’s a big dog, meant to run, so she’s itching to stretch her legs. With a jingle of the collar and a little dance at the w-word, we’re off. It is time for a walk.

The old dog’s name Rhodie, she’s a special and pretentious type of dog called a Rhodesian Ridgeback. The breed doesn’t matter to us at all, she was acquired because she found a soft heart walking through a flea market when I wasn’t even born yet. It was a hot day, even for dogs originating from Africa. My father carried her the rest of the afternoon so her paws wouldn’t be scorched by the pavement, a deed shamelessly repaid by years of bad behavior. Subsequently, many an I-told-you-so from my mother. So here’s the dog, horribly behaved, simply named, and very tolerant of all my childhood antics. Even though she bit half of the head off of one of my baby dolls, she let me tug on her ears for balance when I was learning to stand. Her disregard for what she was supposed to do was justified by the excuse that she was good in all the ways that counted.

With a little extra pep in her old movements, we ascend the stairs. Sadly, pep does not equal ease, her hips have been hurting her as of late. Rhodie makes it up the steps because nothing has ever stopped her from doing whatever the hell she wants. The height of a stove couldn’t stop her from eating two large pizzas, so what’s a meager staircase? She also knows there will be geese, the spawn of Lucifer, and they must be watched. Reaching the top of the stairs, her nose quivers. We smell flowers, she smells trouble. There are some geese on the bike path.

My mother settles in on the sewer grate, and Rhodie sits close by. She doesn’t walk around too far or lunge for the birds like she used to. She may not be a puppy anymore, but she’ll be damned if she lets the geese near her girls. Her graying snout faces the muddy river and she watches, her cloudy eyes fixed on trouble. I crouch in the dewy grass, my quickly filling fists bursting with flowers. There will be no going home until I can’t possibly hold any more. All is well. Spring is coming, and the geese know who’s boss.

Rhodie didn’t make it to last spring. She had a long and happy life full of annoying my father, the one who vouched for her in the first place. Old age had started to catch up to the stubborn old dog, till one day I came home from sixth grade and she was gone. Apparently, it had gotten bad that day, her breath starting to wheeze and shudder, and the vet was called. Goodnight, old girl. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming in the rearview, closer than it appeared. I also can’t say I didn’t cry. Sitting in the passenger seat of my mom’s car, I was drenched in regret for not saying goodbye while hustling to school that morning. While I doubt it mattered to her, I liked rubbing her soft salt and pepper ears and untruthfully tellingly her she was a good girl before I left.

The hyacinths were gone, mowed down as they dwindled, shrinking under the emerging sun. It was strange to see the amount of short brown hair covering my clothing decrease. As a year ticked by, rawhides were tossed and condolences were expressed. When spring rolled around the next year, my mom was sad to see the purple littering the levy. It made me sad too, but the hyacinths couldn’t go to waste. As I had so many times before, I gathered a fistful of the flowers and enjoyed the fresh, cool air. The geese kept their distance because they dared not mess with Rhodie’s girls.

This most recent spring was a complete trainwreck, but the hyacinths still grew. The occasional scandalous daffodil was there too, and naturally, the geese. After a heavy dose of late snows, ugly weather, and a little thing called a global pandemic, the grape hyacinths somehow bloomed wildly. They didn’t go to waste. Filling up cups and miscellaneous vases, they decorated the house with violet and a sweet smell. I often sit on the sewer grate to do school work and think about the old dog that “protected” me from the admittedly evil geese throughout the years. The old dog who never snapped at a tiny me learning how my legs were supposed to work, who ate the food she wasn’t supposed to. That dog was with me for much of my life, a sturdy presence through it all. While she ripped blankets with her claws, chomped on baby dolls, and was occasionally a general menace, she truly was good in all the ways that counted.