Lightside

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It was slow. So terribly slow. But it finally began to recede and left behind soggy and decidedly bare mud. The departure did not come with fanfare, a trumpet blare nor did a drum roll commence. Still, spring has sprung and the snow is melting.

Why does its coming seem so lethargic? Is it due to our impatience? Kids are delighted when snow appears. We older folk think differently, smile at the first full warmth of summer. Fall is greeted with pleasure as nature paints the landscape in a multitude of blazing colours.

Just spring's return seems tardy, like a child facing a bath after a full day of play. It finds a dozen ways to stall, disappear and delay the inevitable. Finally human unrelenting perseverance is rewarded.

During my childhood, growing up in West Hill, we knew it was finally spring when the snow melt revealed long buried garden tools and an expanse of ground that needed digging up for planting. We always marvelled at what had been covered all winter long.

It was officially spring when my dad opened the old shed and swept out last fall's leaves. They had been blown in, gathered in the corners and across the floor. He had left them there. Why sweep a room you are not going to use, was his philosophy.

There were other seasonal signs in my home. Mom's seed catalogues spilled across the table and long parental conversations ensured. "Should we grow runner beans, squash, peas and carrots? How about broccoli and turnips, parsnip and potatoes?" she would ask.

Dad would choose the easiest to care for. It is not that he disliked work. Nope. But he did not like to expend energy unless it was absolutely necessary. So we grew pumpkins, potatoes, root vegetables and anything that tended to reach maturity with minimal weeding.

One year Bill Richards, a neighbour, showed up with a homemade tractor. It was actually an old car chassis with the motor and drive line intact. To drive it, one sat on a wooden box. There was no floor and one made certain not to fall through.

In low gear it dragged a plow blade behind and Dad hired Bill to work our sizable garden patch over. Within the first hour the thing had been stuck twice and blew its muffler. What was normally a day's work by hand took the machine two days and a case of beer to do.

While the garden was being made ready, Mom and I would go for long walks. There was little housing then and the road was gravel sided by deep ditches filled with winter runoff. Hubcaps and such were always there in abundance.

We would walk down Poplar Road, across the tracks and into the fields. The smell of spring was like perfume, rich and heady. If the season were advanced we would find tiny flowers, trilliums and such amongst the trees lining the fields. One of our favourite walks was along the verge of Mr. Cogo's melon field. It was common to see a pheasant, rabbit and, if lucky, other wildlife.

Other folk would also follow this path and neighbourly chats were the highlight of the day. If I were present, the people would tend not to report my childhood mischief and pranks. Those tales would be told at the first opportunity sometime later, perhaps at the community strawberry festival.

For the kids of my area, spring meant the bluffs and we would spend countless hours clambering up and down the sheer, muddy slopes. Rubber boots would be lost in pools of sticky mud and clothing would be uniformly brown, wet and beyond washing upon our return home.

Spring. Who does not revel in all it offers and promises in the months ahead?