Moments Like These: The Signs of Spring

3/20/08

By Trish Pennypacker
Critic Columnist

Winter weekends are chaotic. Not a skier, and responsible for four children, I usually am forced to stay inside. On a typical weekend afternoon I am a pro at simultaneously folding laundry, reading my daughter a story, and writing a few lines here and there for whatever I am working on. Unfortunately, on this dark weekend I had the flu, and my sons were helping their dad at a nearby dairy farm. I had no choice but to entertain my daughter solo. And I blew it.

At first she was content to sit with me and listen to stories, or watch one of her favorite movies, Little Bear.

“Why doesn’t Little Bear live in a dark, dark cave?” she asked.

“Because he has a nice mother,” I suggested. “And because he has such a nice mother, he’s a nice bear himself and has lots of friends that like to come visit him. A dark, dark cave is too cold and scary for all of his nice friends. He needs room to dance and play.”

“Oh,” she said, wrinkling her forehead as she thought about my explanation.

But each new thought led to another question until, in the silence between her questions (if there was ever really silence) I must have fallen asleep. That I did, in my constant state of exhaustion, is no surprise. The sleep was deep, but by glancing at the TV when I woke up, it couldn’t have lasted for long: Little Bear had only enough time to eat breakfast and walk to Owl’s house. But it was long enough. My daughter’s curiosity had gone far beyond dark, dark caves.

I don’t remember if I screamed but I must have. I must have screamed something like… “G-d, NOOOOOO…!” because the sudden confusion on my daughter’s face told me I had shocked her. I tried to focus on her but all I could see was a cloud of yellow. She had zipped open the cushions of our brand new sofa and pulled out handfuls of yellow foam. Foam towered above the arms of the sofa, and floated into the kitchen. And partially hidden beneath the foam was the half deflated sofa cushion. Why she stopped half way, I’ll never know. Probably my gasp, or scream, or sudden look of horror made her self-conscious, where, just seconds before, she had been only overtly curious.

But I couldn’t stay angry at her. Really. After drying her eyes and blowing her nose, I wrapped her in a blanket until she( and I) calmed down; then I collapsed into that huge yellow cloud of frustration.

While re-stuffing the cushion, and assuring my daughter that, “No, I’m not grumpy anymore,” I imagined how bored my daughter must feel being stuck in the house with a sick mother all day. Was it anything like the boredom I feel when it is too cold to go outside and play with the kids?

My husband says I have the fever. But so does everyone else.

Spring fever hit his circle of friends hard. These feverish men consider the opening weekend of trout fishing to be Mother Spring. If song birds have returned, they are overlooked in the excitement: tackle boxes are stocked and weekends are planned around local brooks and fish lore.

Then there’s my neighbor: a legendary gardener (in this small neighborhood) who insists it isn’t spring until the crocuses have bloomed. Starting in early March, she faithfully keeps watch over mounds of snow; shoveling enough snow away for the sun’s warmth to reach the earth below, waiting, as though all of winter’s dark misery could be vanquished in her first glimpse of hopeful spring.

And I can’t forget to mention the back-road folks of the Northeast Kingdom, diligently praying (or cursing!) for snowy roads to thaw, always forgetting that mud, in its abundance, must certainly be the most apparent sign of spring.

But in my family, like many Vermont families, generations place their First Sign of Spring bets on the thousands of buckets hanging in the sugar woods, and the steady echo of the season’s first sap run. All of these signs are well and good that spring is here, but as a tired, winter-wearied, and house-bound mother, I notice something far more inspiring than crocuses, trout, mud, and sugaring season.

On a glorious Thursday, two wonderful things happened: I saw my first robin of the season perched on the garage roof as I backed the car out of the driveway; and when I returned home, all four of my children were jumping on the trampoline, their jackets tossed carelessly into the snow while the sun gleamed off of their white arms. And, even after a slight snow fall this weekend, I was lucky enough to watch the boys pull bikes and scooters out of the shed and ride for hours up and down the muddy path between the garage and the house. With a few of these “spring-like” days, I’ve noticed my spirit seems a little calmer, the house is a little cleaner, and the sofa cushion is no worst for the exploration.

I won’t argue with those who believe that crocuses, maple sugaring, or even trout fishing are the first signs of spring. But I prefer to think that the daily outdoor echoes of my children’s voices are the best indicator that spring is finally here. And because of this, my sofa might just be saved.