Spring is on the way

Peeking out the back door, I notice that the temperature gauge on the deck reads zero again.

Rock-hard snow still covers the yard, and the driveway and brick path to our front door are caked in layers of ice treacherous to drive or walk on.

Blinding snow squalls appear out of nowhere, and flurries are as commonplace as rain, while yet another winter storm watch has been posted with six inches to a foot of the white stuff in the forecast.

By all appearances we are in the throes of one of the coldest, snowiest seasons in memory. But no matter what Mother Nature throws at us now, we duck and know her fury is short-lived. March may come in as a lion, but in three weeks it will be springtime – and that changes everything.

“We often have a real blizzard in March; but even so, we have seen the earth again and felt the wind of spring,” said New England author Gladys Taber, who wrote from her seventeenth-century farmhouse in rural Connecticut. “It is just another removal sale on Nature’s part.”

A few hours later I am sitting in the Ram watching a hardy soul walk the beach. I should venture out, but instead I remain in the warmth of the truck cabin and dream about spring.

Not long from now the sand will soften, balmy breezes will blow, this deserted shoreline will fill with beach-goers and the Sakonnet will buoy a fleet of pleasure boats.

Ah, springtime…

At the summer house, we drive into the back yard; and I try to imagine that this Arctic tundra is a thick, springy bed of green grass.

Surveying the snow-covered roof of the house, we unlock the front door and step into the cold, musty confines of the dwelling. After checking each of the rooms, we thank God that they are intact, just the way we left them last fall.

A few years ago, we arrived to find a pile of rumble in the living room, where the ceiling had caved in.

I smile. In my mind I have already moved back. I am home.

So let the storms rage on...

“It doesn’t matter if a few shingles fall off in the hurrying wind,” said Taber. “It isn’t important that the yard is going to be an inland lake for some time. It doesn’t matter too much if a falling branch cuts off the electric. Spring is on the way.”

Signs of the times

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.