By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
At this time of year my mother becomes very impatient. Really once a new calendar year begins, she has an immediate goal that she is set to attain. And if you’re thinking I am referencing some sort of resolution or the like, you are way off base. Once the year begins my mother is bound and determined to find one very specific sign. She has always looked for this one indicator that means to her that her greatly loathed Winter is on its way out and her beloved Spring is surely around the corner. It does not matter if it is warm or if it is downright frigid with snow and ice all around. She regularly keeps an eye out for her lifeline out of the bleak chill. She begins early and frequently checking for daffodils.
Maybe it’s fitting that since, I, her favorite child, was born in March that my birth flower is a daffodil. However, I do not remotely think that’s why she loves them like she does. I know it’s because of how much she despises winter and how they are the floral equivalent to a dagger to the heart for that season. I was with her last weekend when we saw our first bud. These plants happen to be at an old homeplace that is across the street from her home. The owner of said location happened to mosey by as we were headed to investigate the flowers. I had to chuckle when he stopped to talk because he knew exactly where she was heading and what she was looking for. He told her she could actually dig up as many of the bulbs as she wanted. Add that offer to finding a not-too-far from opening bud dangling off one of the green stems and the trip was a glorious success for my mom. As far as she is concerned, Spring could burst onto the scene in all its radiant glory at any second, calendar be darned.
My mother isn’t the only that is apparently feels a certain amount of confidence in the changing of the seasons. As soon as the snow and ice from a few weeks ago melted, the birds went crazy. I know they probably sing regularly. Lord knows I hear our plentiful crow population quite frequently regardless of the time of year, but the songbirds really cranked up the volume once the thaw hit. The twittering outside was loud and significant. Maybe it was some form or relief for them because you should have seen them when the snow was coming down. They were swooping and diving amid the falling flakes. They legitimately looked like they were playing in the snow but perhaps it was a panic reaction I don’t know but I hadn’t seen the likes of it before. But the minute it was gone they made the announcement loudly that things were warming, and all of the outdoors should hear about it. Now robins and more bluebirds than I can ever remember seeing before and all manner of sparrow are telling the news. I don’t know if worms have ears but if so, I am sure they are horrified.
It wasn’t even only birds that decided to become chattier as of late either. The frogs have joined the fray as well. I find it especially endearing that the loudest amphibians of the bunch are ones whose name I happen to know. The appropriately monikered Spring Peepers are out in abundance these days. Get within even a moderately close distance from a stream or even low-lying area that might be even the slightest bit damp and the “peeping” is fervent and plentiful. I am not sure if I should take these little voices as gospel despite their names as I am not sure they have an actual seasonal requirement on their sound. I suppose it was probably some scientist that named them ages ago and due to their clear lack of creativity in coming up with their title I don’t know that they are officially bringing in the season or just the best some herpetologists could muster. I don’t suppose I should let my seasonal stock depend too heavily on their sentiments just like I don’t think any bets should be made on a large rodent and his shadow seeing. Honestly though, a loud-mouthed frog might be a better bet than a groundhog if we’re honest because I mean really, how do we even know if he saw his shadow or not? Who does he tell and how does he tell them? Now there is an enigma of a tradition.
As I am finishing up writing this, I am sitting in my living room with the door open to my back porch. I can hear all the birds I have been talking about. I also hear something that is quite out of the ordinary except for these very specific times of year. I am listening to my daughter play outside. She is like her father and doesn’t want too much heat so this in between of pleasant not too hot not too cold temperatures is her ideal. She is talking to the crows, and they are talking back. For the first time in months, I am not wrapped up in a cuddly blanket and am totally comfortable. I just heard a turkey call in the distance mingled in with the songs of his much smaller cousins. And while I have heard the very ambitious long-term forecasts of some meteorologists say that we could have some more cold weather and even wintry precipitation in a few weeks, I had to stop by my mother’s house yesterday and on her dining room table sat a mason jar with a handful of daffodil blooms. I’m no scientist but, though Spring may not be here yet, it’s standing on the front porch with a bluebird on its shoulder.
Prose and Possibilities 