After an endless winter of snow measured in feet and cold, here’s a reflection after a glorious weekend.
Novelist William Styron, a Newport News native, tucked away a love letter to the glories of springtime in the Old Dominion in his Pultizer-prize winning book, “The Confessions of Nat Turner.”
Here’s the passage. In the book, a traveling salesman stops by the farm of Nat’s master, and expounds on the beauty of spring in Virginia:
“No, sir, Mr. Turner,” he was saying, “they is no spring like it in this great land of ours. They is nothing what approaches the full springtide when it hits Virginia. And, sir, they is good reason for this. I have traveled all up and down the seaboard, from the furtherest upper ranges of New England to the hottest part of Georgia, and I know whereof I speak. What makes the Virginia spring surpassing fine? Sir, it is simply this. It is simply that, whereas in more southern climes, the temperature is always so humid that spring comes as no surprise, and whereas in more northerly climes the winter becomes so prolonged that they is no spring at all hardly, but runs smack into summer—why, in Virginia, sir, it is unique! It is ideal! Nature has conspired so that spring comes in a sudden warm rush! Alone in the Virginia latitude, sir, is spring like the embrace of a mother’s arms!”