It is
officially March, but little has changed with the turn of the calendar page.
There is still snow in our backyard, and downed trees and broken limbs are
scattered everywhere, tangible reminders of the fierce February nor’easters
that blew through here.
Early this
morning temperatures hovered near freezing, as I ventured out in my wool coat,
hood and gloves.
One of the
best descriptions of March I have ever read is in “The New England Butt’ry
Shelf Almanac” written by Mary Mason Campbell from her white eighteenth-century
farmhouse in Salisbury, New Hampshire.
“March is a
play actor, an Indian giver,” she said. “March is a warm soft spring day and a
sudden blizzard; a balmy breeze from the south and icy blast from the north; a
sudden downpour and a blaze of bright sunshine. March is a night sky of intense
black and sparkling silver, or an awesome aurora borealis of shimmering color,
or a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder."
Leaving our
Massachusetts' home, my husband and I drive over the bridge at the end of our
road and notice the river racing swiftly downstream, the abnormally high water
level the result of Wednesday’s constant rain and the surge of
melted snow.
When we
reach Seapowet Bridge in Tiverton, Rhode Island, we once again marvel at the
incredibly high water level, this aberration probably more the result of the
high tide than recent rainfall.
Geese
congregate in the wetlands along Neck Road, happily paddling around the new
waterways that have formed within the trees.
As we turn
into Fogland Beach, we notice that the road is filled with rainwater. Wading through
the stream, we feel like we’re inside a boat rather than a truck.
Parking near
a picnic table, my husband can’t wait to walk the beach; but I stay inside
gazing out at the panorama before me, looking for signs of spring.
The sea and
sky are mirror images of each other, a steely gray; and the brisk wind, cold
and unforgiving.
Within
minutes my husband is back in the truck, and we head up High Hill Road to the
summer house.
Driving into
the backyard, we notice that the weeping willow has carpeted the winter grass
with its many branches.
My husband
gets out of the truck to check his boat and finds the antenna broken in half.
But then I
see them along the stone wall. Poking through hard, cold earth and dodging
stones and twigs, the daffodils wave in the wind.
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