I know we haven’t gotten to it yet on the calendar but let me be among the first to say to us all that spring has sprung, arrived and also now is here.
And, yes, I know we’ve had some Winter weather in March and even April through the years. I remember when but a mere lad the famous March of 19somethingoranother when it snowed every Wednesday for three – or was it four – weeks and we went to school on Saturdays, at Midnight and for the month of July.
Then there is the famous April of some other year, which at the moment escapes my memory, which, by the way, is a much shorter trip now than it was when I was on my “A” game just a few short years ago. That particular April it snowed and then snowed some more and then for good measure snowed some more. And there was the Easter of another year when we had snow on the ground . . . or maybe it was that year.
Anyway, depending on which groundhog or TV weather geek you trust, there is a fair to middlin’ chance we won’t have any of the white stuff, which will make it hard to make snow cream. But, if by some chance if we do, fortunately for Shirley, there is a good supply of wife-sized wood for her to stuff into the heater.
But despite the recent weather past as well as the possibility for the future, spring has now reared its head with an unmistakable sign.
It is not the rounds of some daytime temps out of the 40’s and lows below 28 at night, which make the unhooking and draining of hoses for the cattle water tubs a necessity. Neither is it the days when the thermometer has traveled into the 60s and even higher.
It is not the first mowing of grass, something I’ve seen recently as large amounts of clippings lay spread across some rural roads in our corner of the world. Nor is it Mother Nature’s glorious perfume of mowed wild onions that often accompany first cuttings.
Neither is it the greening of the pasture grass, made that way by the recent heavy rains and warm temperatures and appearances of Mary Sunshine. And it is not the frolic of the spring calves and lambs as they discover they do have much to say about how their extremities move.
It is not the song of the birds outside my bedroom and bathroom windows as they go from limb to limb in the nearby trees, apparently searching out just the right neighborhood for their upcoming families. And it’s not the nightly serenade from the katydids, crickets, tree frogs and other assorted creatures, most of whom are unseen and unnamed, as I listen to them from my back porch as their show goes on down toward the pond.
So, you may ask (or maybe not), if the sign of spring is none of these things, then what is it.
Today, tonight really, as I came across the back yard toward the house after putting wood into the heater since a little warmth still feels good, there in the twilight darkness I saw my first hoppy toad.
And I knew: It’s spring.
He was a little fellow, maybe the size of a quarter, and he gave it all he had to get out of my way. But no way was I going to molest him. I’ll leave that to the dogs, who still haven’t figured out the reason toads don’t taste good when they get them in their mouths and then spit them out has something to do with Mr. Toad’s survival instincts as they relate to his bodily functions.
Pretty soon the Toad family will be everywhere, hopping and jumping and hiding from the canines. But for just a moment, this second full week of March, Mr. Toad served a very real and significant purpose – a very gentle reminder that if winter comes (and then goes) can Spring be far behind?
So let it be…
