Even before she is born March Rivers hears all about it. She rocks down there in that dark warm river, listens to the music, the enchanting soap operas, bits of chatter, and tells herself, oh you’re going to love it out there. Life. Yes you are, March. I promise you anything, but I give you a fox trot, ten toes, a dab of Arpège. I send you on your way, and all you do is wave and say hello to the world. There there. Head up. Shoulders back. Never fear. Say, Hello, my name is March Rivers. What is yours? What is your hobby? I am fine. Fine thank you. How do you do? Laugh and the world laughs with you. Squeeze a little around your eye until something happens. Thus, a wink. Indicating, this is all in fun. Now, a smile, and there you are. Splendid. Remember, being alone is scary, and you only live once. God bless America, and God bless you.
And so March enters. Small, but tough. Very red, very fierce. Soaked, but a miracle, nevertheless. Born early at hot dawn with the sun just looping its way over thechoppy Lake Michigan sea, the temperature on the bank building already pushing eighty, and the Saturday night music playing on. What we have here is a four-pound tomato, a real survivor. It is 1934. Not the best of times; still, Ivan Bunin has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature and Helen Moody is the Wimbledon champion; Brokers Tip has won the Derby; Sally Rand is a star. And it’s going to be a beautiful day! A lovely day. Seventy-nine, clear as a bell. Out on Main Street people will move right along, hum a tune, keep the beat, dream new dreams, praise summer skies. On this summer morning, hardly a cloud in sight.
–Suzanne McNear
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