Spring in Maine yawns, stretches, stirs slowly.
The changing of the seasons always maneuvers gradually, methodically. Part of reason because we love them all. Let go slowly. There are a few in the boat that have never been to Maine. Yet. That think of winter being pretty much all she wrote for weather. The all in all done for a one size fits all in the climate department. Maine has no polar bears. No igloo subdivisions dotting the landscape. No special highways for dog sled commutes over the frozen tundra. That’s Artic Circle. Enough said about Maine’s weather, climate.
Maybe it’s just me but this winter, didn’t it have some days with higher than normal wind performances?
Large chunks of roofing shingles on the farm lawn prove the point. Maybe just localized wind sheer. No leaks but the first slip to be eyes closed, reach in and pulled out from the property maintenance job jar. When the extension ladders get hauled into action. Out of winter storage and one important not dirty but necessary four letter word is muttered under my breath…”roof”.
The contrast of a few lingering “rotting” snow banks to earlier fluffy white soft powder fresh ones. Where the deposits this time of the calendar become more like snow cone crunchy, granular. Peppered with sand seasoned, mixed in. That was layed down for traction to take away some of the slip and slide. And the white white of most of our buildings in Maine can also make you antsy. Can’t wait anxious. Can you say high volume power wash? Or paint can and brush after scraping the loose, flakes of dead paint for the new fresh trim ultra bright white coating. (Two more slips spiral southward into the now not so transparent jar for chore, puttering suggestions.)
There is a restlessness to a Maine spring when winter frost takes its sweet time oozing, gasping out of the ground.
Lake and river ice disappears. And Maine farmers begin to think about which field “warms up” quickest. That drains and allows equipment to plow, disc and prepare the soil for seeding. Without the planting preparation tractor and whatever it drags behind it getting mired up to the axles. Four wheel drive or not can spell quick sand like doom in the back forty acres of a Maine farm.
Maine land, a patch of dirt that begs, whines, obsesses about the need for USDA soil conservation drainage tiles please. To give the water another place to go. With a Maine bottle club last call urgency after the house band says good night. you’ve been the best audience ever. Really. The house lights arch welder, solar eclipse bright flash on. And everyone squints like a ground hog on February 2nd. From laughter, dancing, socializing. The distraction from day to day.
And a “we don’t care where you go but you can not stay here” tone is ushered in so everyone thinks go home.
Flit. Vamoose. Go now. Water laying in stagnant puddles reminded, chided, scolded and directed the same way to say Moose Brook. The hope since day one when the mature trees were removed one by one. And a Maine woodlot changed it’s voting party membership affiliation. Becoming a cleared field instead for an entirely different purpose altogether.
It’s too early to rake lawns, gather blown debris from sticks, twigs, food wrappers or old leaves that flew in on a northwestly direction wind red eye.
And replaced all the ones you had bagged and tagged. Or burned, remembering that same sweet, smokey smell from falls through out your life so far. Anxious to roll up the sleeves and tackle what winter left behind to make room for spring. But the 51 degrees last weekend of sunshine city a tease of sorts. As a dusting of white powder greets during the hunt and peck process with fresh coffee injected, as the day unfolds. Saying ah ah ah… not yet. But knowing a “last time” finger wagging reminder for plowing snow may have already happened. Stay tuned.
Little league games in early spring where you best bring a blanket, or what the heck. Wear a snow suit. Being warm rock, paper, scissors combined trumping fashionable any day of the week. Shorts and tank tops, Tevas will have their cue to announce you’re up. you’re safe.Out of the woods. Moisture from the ground, the sun still changing up the wattage on it’s bulb for more heat, not just extended light happening slowly. To prepare your mind for spring in Maine. Where you start to see maple syrup buckets here and there popping up around your local town, country settings. Where canoes, kayaks are dug out for river races. When snow shoes are hung up and baskets for approaching fiddle heads are located, readied for service.
Thoughts of dairy bars opening up, greenhouses being put on line and heading to the lake for BBQ’s all crowd in to the grey matter.
To replace down hill snow skiing, ice hockey games that can only be watched standing up. When following orange basketballs, visits to different Maine high school gyms stop. As one by one fully grown, greying snow birds that have an aversion to winter shovels, scoops, windshield scrappers, that went on strike last fall gladly return. Find their way without a trail of bread crumbs to Maine, Vacationland. The state that really should be in Canada. And almost is. Have you figured out the reason for your season? And the people you meet along the way of the experience called your life? Maine, figure it out, spend time with her. Don’t keep her waiting. Get here every chance you can for all the answers, reasons for the seasons. To collect needed, vital puzzle pieces.