Real

Spring in Maine
unpredictable,
winter weather hangs on
even in late April
while
forsythia
blooms
I wear wool socks,
not just because of
the cold
but,
rather
I think
I cannot
bear the
passage of time.


Season upon season
month by month
time passes
alone
while the chances
of forgetting
him become
real.

Changes

The freezing rain sitting on top of the layer of snow is soft underfoot, but will  ice over by morning.  The salt sits by the door in a impractical plastic bag with handles. Not trusting the handles, carrying it from the car and into the house, I nestle it against my body like I would a baby.   Early in the winter, I found a large tin can that holds enough salt to cover the steps and then some.   I broadcast the salt on the steps and walkway in the same way I would feed the chickens leftover cooked rice. I know what I am dealing with when it comes to winter, so far I have survived.

Despite the cold, the snow and ice there is evidence that the ground is thawing. Puddles and mud are abundant.  As the seasons change, so must there be a shift in my thinking and planning.  I realize that I am so unprepared for this next season.  I don't know what to expect.  I don't even know if I have a working lawnmower to manage the nearly 5 acres of lawn.

The challenges that winter has brought are faced day by day.  When I need help, it comes.   Spring is just another season with different set of challenges that I will face day by day.  When I need help, I will get it.  All I have to do is ask and trust that all will be well.

A Line in the Snow

Spring drags a line in the snow

She won’t step over,

Although wooed,

Coaxed

With sweet talk,

And promises.

What will come of the berries,

Beginnings still frozen deep

In slumber?

It's just not right.

A Shift

Flood warnings for the entire state, the radio blared. I look around, the piles of snow linger only in the shelter of dense woods.  “No danger here,” I think to myself, “All safe.”

Later, in the evening while I sit quietly reflecting on my day, I’m embarrassed by my casual reaction to the warning. In reality, lives and property are at risk and considering the extended winter we endured, the snow melt could create some long lasting issues for Maine folks.  

When I was growing up, I never got used to houses regularly being swept out to sea.  Undaunted owners would rebuild in the same spot and certainly face recurring losses.  Many years ago geologist built a jetty that created problems that no one could imagine.  The little seaside village where my grandfather built a family home has been disappearing bit by bit.  No one seems to know how to fix it.

Place.  It is important.  Through the years houses change hands, landscape shifts or is altered due to weather or man.   Yet memories are framed by place.  The tiny strawberries I picked in the lot next door where a house now sits, I can still taste. Bringing my once stained fingers to my nose, I can smell the sweetness.  I hear the rattle of the windows in the first house that my husband and I shared in Otter Creek; we began our lives together there.  Place evokes memory.

Flood warnings for the entire state. I will always pray that our memories of place remain intact.

Waiting

We waited for days like today.  Reluctant mounds of snow melting.  Puddles.  Mud.  With the first few days of spring, sometimes earlier we knew it would come any day. Bike riding weather.  At least a month before we would shine up our bikes, inflate the tires and sometimes add a horn or glittery streamers for the handle bars.  

Every kid in the neighborhood had a bike with a banana seat and sissy bar handlebars.  Despite urging my mother to conform, I rode my second hand, heavy red bike with fat wide tires. Hand brakes were fashionable, but I had a one speed with a mechanism that activated the brake with a backward stroke of the pedals. The weight of the bike made it difficult to keep up with my friends. It seemed that I worked doubly hard with others who had three speeds- I had one speed:  slow. My mother held onto the belief that, “if it's not broken, why replace it.”  Quinn’s Bike Shop was near St. Mary’s School and I would start my journey home window shopping.  Sometimes I would go in and stroke the gleaming bikes. Then check the price tag.

When I was in 6th or 7th grade, I saved babysitting money I earned to buy myself a three-speed blue bike from Sears.  That bike frequently took me to the beach 15 or so miles away.  The hours it took to get there and back required short liberated visits, a quick walk on the beach followed by a picnic lunch.  It was nearly an all day excursion.   I went alone, frequently trying a different route and discovered that all roads have their share of hills.

On days like this-sunny with the earth thawing I think of the thrill of those first bike rides.  Soon the carriage roads, now soft with whispers of winter will be ready for riders.  I sure could use my rugged, red bike with wide tires.  

Patience

Sometimes my bed is the only place to retreat.  The simple fact is that it is cold again.  The recent 37-47 degree temperatures lulled us into a false security that spring-like weather was here to stay.  Instead, this evening I am burrowed under the puff of down and a handmade quilt.  My husband is reading in bed beside me.  I slide my cold feet nearer to his.  The radiating warmth forces my feet onto his like little iron filings attracted to a magnet.  Once my feet and his feet touch, there they remain.  His warmth becomes my warmth, which becomes our warmth.  My hands also feign icicles, but instead of pushing my luck, I wring my hands in the layers of down and quilt.  That does little.  So, I begin to imagine them curled around a hot mug of tea.  Still ice-like. I drape them across my torso interlacing my fingers. I close my eyes and face reality.   It will take time.  Patience.  Warmth will come.

Patience is wearing thin among most northern folk.  Another winter storm is coming. In reality most things in life, we have little control.  Patience.  It will take time, but spring will come.  Someday.

Crossed and Blurry

Hours later, crossed, blurried eyes still work.

Post Script:  This was suppose to be a 6 word story, but I am the rule-maker and made it 7 @ UMO.

After Winter

The rocks tumbled by the fury of the sea begin to warm way before the earth.  The weight of heavy or light step, shuffles and slides the gray and pink speckled egg-like shapes. A shore walk is never quiet amidst the colliding stones.  These rocks accustomed to movement underfoot,  are under the strong pull of the sea. It is a full moon. This gravitational force causes an astronomically low and high tide of push and pull. These rocks have little say about where they will go.  I lie on my back atop the layers of dry warmed pebbles of varying sizes. My eyes close. I listen to the rush of the sea.  Energized after a long winter, yet at peace.

Gentle Awakening

You call me from your perch,
Amidst my dreams
A gentle awakening.

I peer through the glass,
Hazy with dust
Scanning treetops.

Scarlet flash,
Gone.
Until another time.

The Deafening Call

Most springs just before dusk, on a random lovely evening we all tumble into the vehicle driving a short distance away.  The car waits on the side of the road as we amble along an unofficial park trail veined with bumpy aging roots, old acorns and leaves left from a season past. To the left there is an old stone foundation, crumbling and hidden in the overgrowth, and just beyond that is a swampy bog that looks particularly murky at dusk.  As we draw nearer, the sound becomes almost unbearable.  I want to cup my hands over my ears to muffle the call, but then I remember why we are here. We are the audience.  It seems that all the male peepers of the world congregate in this one spot to call for a mate.  We have come to witness this chorus of mighty peepers. 

Sadly, our teenagers have seemingly outgrown this tradition, however, in a few years I‘m certain that they will remind us that it is time to listen to the peepers. I’m counting on it.

The Rites of Spring

A fistful of lilies of the valley was not easy to pick.  My mother planted them in a tight corner, in clumps on the right side of the front porch.  It faced south, the sunny side.  Although that corner seemed dark, it was wet and filled with little sticky webs that clung once you brushed into it.  There were other precious plants to stride over before securing a toe-hold on the nearest patch of bare soil and reaching in the corner to cut each long green stem.

Each spring as soon as it was short sleeve weather, everyday I began to visit the corner, pushing back the shiny big green leaves of the lilies. I watched the bells form and take shape. When they were ready, my teacher received a bundle of the white blossoms wrapped in a wet paper towel held together by a piece of crinkled foil.  Until I passed the bouquet off to my teacher, the good pleasure of inhaling the sweet fragrance of these flowers was mine. 

As an adult, I have never successfully grown lilies of the valley.  This time every year, I watch my First Grade-self handing the fistful of lilies to Sister Mary Natalie as a smile formed across her face, her eyes closed, as she inhaled deeply and just sighed in gratitude.

My students present me with dandelions heavy with pollen and droopy by the time they reach me.  As the recipient of this gesture of affection, I automatically draw the flowers close to inhale the earthy tones and sigh as I recall the simple rites of spring.

The In Between

The rusty red brilliance of the wintered over blueberry barrens emerge with the snowy melt.  The hours of light lengthen.   According to the calendar, we can say that we survived another Maine winter.  My feet are still bound warm by woolies and a hand knit alpaca scarf is wound loosely around my neck for the snuggly warm effect.     Winter-like evenings remain punctuated by warming stews and soups, long luscious reads and early to bed under the weighted piles of blankets. All this is comfort amidst the harshness of winter.  I can’t say that I am grieving the passing of this cold season.  There is an impatience that I cannot temper easily.  Gone are the clamp-ons that allowed me to walk safely on frozen ground, gone are the down jackets, snow shoes, ice scrapers and snow melt thrown onto the steps. Gone at least in my mind at this moment, that is until the next spring snowstorm pays the Northeast a visit.  I’m doing my best to accept whatever comes.  Yet, I can’t help it, I find myself anticipating my toes wiggling free in flip flops and that first long swim in the lake-the cool water slipping passed me between strokes.   For now, I try to embrace the in-between.

Risks

“More than half will not survive to maturity,” the woman behind the counter stated evenly.  This was something that I had not considered or a reality I chose not to remember.  My husband and I were not novice chicken owners.   We had done it before.  Less than a decade ago meant a spring visit to the “Seed and Feed” for a half dozen chicks to round out our flock.  Now, I was just at the ordering stage.  I wasn’t supposed to consider death so early in the process, was I?

It seems that all the latest magazine issues that passed through my hands like Mary Jane Farm, Martha Stewart Living, and Mother Earth News had articles about chicks, chickens and their care. Devouring each, reinforced my resolution to become a bit more self-sufficient and led me to inquire about ordering chicks.  Sweet little fluffy balls with feet and beaks and doting buff colored adult hens were modeled inside the pages, glossy and perfect.  None reminded the novice of the pitfalls or heartache of ownership.  The only image that I have held in my mind is the energy those young ones possess and the loud chorus of chirps, almost deafening at times as we set the brood in a tall box for comfort and safety. We all gather and watch.  If you sit long enough you can watch them grow and change.  The anticipation and excitement of new life in the house quickens my breath and yet, the unknown fate of the birds is a reality and leaves an inkling of dread.

Yet, there is not much in this life that does not come with risks.   Mutual reliance is a basic condition that accompanies poultry ownership and outweighs the possibility of heartache.

In Preparation of Mud

Three days of unrelenting snow fall, albeit tantalizingly white, fluffy and yes beautiful was followed by today’s snow showers and mud.  Mud oozing with melt off.  This made for a careful dog walk, while Rex found the perfect spot to deposit.  For days now, while wearing my fashionable suede boots my right heel would get wet, only my right heel.  This is expected with slushy conditions, but I also found that I got wet in mud, despite my careful walking. Closer inspection revealed a spidery web of cracks in the sole of my boot.  Spring is nearing.  I can feel it, but can I manage another month with these boots? 

So comes the notion of spring.  A season that both sooths the senses waking to the sound of chattering birds or wrangles the adult psyche when one realizes clean floors are impossible during the time of mud.  So every soul in New England who is responsible for house cleaning tries to avoid the stuff when walking outside, but that is also an impossible notion.  So, the only solution is to wear rubber boots, daily.  You know the kind that rise up to your knees in case of a flash flood.  My old trusty navy blue pair also sprung a leak.  For weeks now the local stores have taken great care to attract the consumer with huge displays of the rubber boots that now rival great museum quality art with the funky colors and designs.  The bright yellow rain boots of my youth are hard to find. 

Just a week ago, I passed one of those big displays in the Ellsworth Tractor Supply store.  Last week, in the throngs of winter, spring seemed so far away, but today with the tease of mud I needed those boots.  Carrying a mental list: cat food, check on the details of ‘Chick Days’, rubber boots, I pushed through the main entrance of the store and headed without a cart to the shelves of bags of cat food.  Indoor, outdoor, kitten food, weight maintenance… the forty pound bags were lined up neatly on the shelves.  My husband quickly followed behind, grabbed the familiar light green bag of indoor formula (the only kind that seems to keep the hairballs at bay) and   we headed toward the back of the store where we conjured images of fluffy balls of chirping spring chicks all hankering for food and the warmth of the heat lamp.  My husband lugging the bag through the store, made a quick dash for the check-out.  I swiped my debit, grabbed my slip and my husband was already in the car, when I realized I did not buy my boots.  The display was no longer.  I cocked my head this way and that standing on tip toes in an attempt to see the artful footwear as I walked out the store, but all I saw was Carharrt tee shirts and cowboy boots.  No rubber rain boots.

The forecast midweek calls for another wicked snowstorm.  I am just hoping that the snow and cold will last, just until I can don my brand new not so yellow rubber boots.  Just in time for the mud.