Regardless of what the calendar
says, real spring takes its time in the Great North Woods. Here, winter lingers in the valleys, even as
spring is climbing slowly up the slopes,
softening their granite ridges. Because winter always keeps things frozen longer than we think it should, we’ve learned to appreciate the subtle signs of spring: the first green of poplar trunks; the indentations in the snow where frisky foxes have stopped hunting just long enough to mate; the printed warnings stapled to trees along muddy backroads, where heavy trucks are forbidden. Soon we’ll be swatting black flies, wishing for the days not long before when we could leave our houses without the screened hats and bug-dope we must wear well into summer, sometimes beyond.
softening their granite ridges. Because winter always keeps things frozen longer than we think it should, we’ve learned to appreciate the subtle signs of spring: the first green of poplar trunks; the indentations in the snow where frisky foxes have stopped hunting just long enough to mate; the printed warnings stapled to trees along muddy backroads, where heavy trucks are forbidden. Soon we’ll be swatting black flies, wishing for the days not long before when we could leave our houses without the screened hats and bug-dope we must wear well into summer, sometimes beyond.
When
a friend moved here from Boston,
her husband, who’s retired, agreed to the move.
But after his first winter he’d decided this was no place for him. He needed coffee shops, sidewalks, and more
choices at the grocery store. He
especially needed more sun. He talked
about spending his winters elsewhere without her. My
friend is an amicable sort who adapts easily, but even she couldn’t love winter
enough to agree to a part-time, long-distance marriage. It’s hard enough adapting to the darkness of
winter here, where the mountains dam up the clouds most days, blocking the
sun. Some people cheat by sitting in
front of light-boxes soaking up photons.
Others force themselves out into the frigid air, collecting whatever
clouded light they can find between the late dawns and early dusks of November,
December, January, and February. Others book flights to Florida.
To survive psychologically, we do what we must.
Yet
real spring here often lasts only a week or two before the heat of inland
summer surprises us, and our winter blood finally thins. Still, we cannot rush the in-between season. Instead, we must dwell on signs—the spring
beauties, claytonia virginica, lifting
their leaves above the forest floor even in the sparse sun of April. The deep drumming of partridges’ wings
resonating in our own vocal chords. The
clods of mud sticking to our boots, dropping and exploding on the floor as we enter
our houses. It’s easy enough to miss such
signs.
But
if, like my friend’s husband, we eventually change our minds, forgetting the attractions of streetlights
and heated sidewalks of the city, we learn the extended joy of looking forward
to spring, for few arrivals, it seems, are ever as good as anticipating them.