When I was a kid, I was a chronic insomniac. My parents, being merciful (or wanting their own sleep), let me have a TV in my room back before kids having TVs in their rooms was a thing. My already sleepless nights were full of Logan’s Run, Sybil, and the Deerslayer – the shows that made “Movies Until Dawn.” If you ever see me shudder when I see a picture of Sally Field, you will know why.
With fascinating shows such as these, it’s no wonder that I was usually happy to occupy myself instead of having to create my own nightmares (please Lord, make them stop). But every year, on a grey, pre-dawn morning in early February, I would be drawn to the window that overlooked my backyard, and I could see Spring arrive – no groundhog needed. We had a small orchard outside – about twenty-something fruit trees – peaches, plums, apricots, nuts, apples, pomegranates….I know their branches were naked the previous afternoon. But one dark night later, they were blooming in all their glory, promising that life was beginning again.
Beyond the six foot block wall that surrounds just about every house in Las Vegas, there was the desert with its scrub, and beyond that, the purple mountains. Soon, lizards would be scurrying, birds would be chirping, and the air would be warm and vibrant.
Every year, I never expected that morning, but every year, it came.