This post is contributed by Barnaby Porter from his archives. Read the previous post here.
Photo: Asparagus from May’s garden on toast.
In my determination to see spring in, “proper,” as they say, I need to get my mind, body and biorhythm in sync with the season. But that’s no problem for me; if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s riding out a full-blown case of spring fever.
I generally develop symptoms somewhere around the second or third week of February on a calm, sunny morning when the chickadees have started practicing their spring song, when the woodpecker’s hammering echoes through the still woods, even all the way across the river – a prehistoric sound to my ear, its powerful signal, a tattooed cue to my consciousness to be aware of the stirrings about.
On such a morning, starting a fire in our old Queen Atlantic seems a pleasant chore, not one of grim determination to stay warm but more a celebratory nudging of that hard-working appliance to crank out just a few more BTU’s to finish off the heating season.
Susan laughs at me and the workings of my fevered mind, pointing at the word “February” on the calendar and reminding me of the time she caught me sunbathing in a lawn chair atop a five-foot snow pile, in January. But that was 25 years ago I tell her, and I’ve learned to be more reasonable in my seasonal expectations. February, I point out, at least the end of February, is when the sap begins to run. Surely, that is irrefutable evidence that spring is “springing.”
Our argument drags on into March, a month fraught with the signs of winter’s departure: magnificent potholes in the roads, glistening muddy ruts, buckets hanging on maple trees, mostly bare ground and, yes, vees of Canada geese honking their way upriver and, yes, flocks of red-winged blackbirds! “Come on!” I insist. “If this isn’t spring, I don’t know what is.”
I point to the dwindling pile of firewood in the shed – proof. Susan just laughs, and she points south. “I’m getting out of here for a little vacation from all this ‘spring’.” And I groan. “I suppose,” she says, “somebody will sell you a ticket if you want to come along.” The next thing I know I’m looking at palm trees. (We came home from our recent vacation in the middle of an unusually late blizzard. That seasonal aberration was not lost on my argumentative spouse.)
And then, of course, April rolls around. The ducks are courting like crazy out on the river. Swallows, phoebes, robins – everybody’s arriving. Dandelions appear here and there. With rake and shovel in hand, I’m a whirling spring dervish, cleaning up, uncovering the boats, turning on the outside water, firing up the garden fountain. I do love spring!
“This is supposed to be your job!” snarls Susan as she drops a thundering armload of wood into the box by the stove. “If you don’t get a fire going in that stove right this minute, you’re in big trouble, Buster!” A pretty but disgruntled wife and spring have a lot in common; both have great, heartwarming potential, but you’ve got to be careful not to get your hopes too high, too soon.
Anyhow, now it’s May. Mayflowers, mayflies and all that. Asparagus! Fiddleheads! Planting the vegetable garden. Robins’ egg shells on the lawn. If ever a month was the epitome of spring, it is May. But the problem with May in Maine, and me, is that by now I am all “sprung out,” and the concept of summer seems to be creeping into my head. The last thing I think of doing is lugging wood and building fires.
The unexpected result of this affliction of mine? My “obsessive-compulsive spring fever,” as a certain person puts it? The month of May has come to rest in my mind as the coldest month of the year. The stove has gone more or less lifeless. The doors and windows have by now been thrown open, and my heavy coat hangs idle on a hook. Yet, despite the calendar, there’s kind of a strong wind out today, and, one might say, there’s a modicum of bone-chilling dampness in the air. And, much as I hate to admit it, my nose is dripping. I’m cold as hell. Spring! By now, it should be over.
Artist and author Barnaby Porter has had a varied career in marine research, aquaculture, and woodworking, among others. Most recently he partnered with his wife Susan as co-owners of the Maine Coast Book Shop & Cafe in downtown Damariscotta. In October 2021, Barnaby completed his tenure on Coastal Rivers’ Board of Trustees after six years of service.
