TheBanyanTree: Winter is Dying

[NancyIee at aol.com]

Here, where I put down my temporary roots, winter is but a day.  Yet,  I am 
reminded of the reality of that frigid season by a Banyan Tree write:  "Warming 
up to fifty."  How well I remember those days, when after months  of snow, 
growing dirty and crusty along the roadways, a day warming to fifty  meant I 
could hang clothes outside to dry. It was a signal, like spotting the  first 
robin.
 
The icicles along the house eaves would be streaked yellow by the  
neverending cycle of thaw and freeze. A children, it was custom to knock off the  
biggest one with a snowball, and lick it down.  Of course, it would be  gritty from 
the bits of roofing shingles. Still, it was a ritual as Springlike  as 
watching for the Groundhog to check out his shadow.
 
The snowman in the yard would list and lose his pipe. Mothers would start  
agitating about the mud we tracked in. It was a neighborhood contest who would  
have the first tulips or daffodils. It was the snow drifts melting down to  
reveal the truth about what happened to our bike or the rake.
 
Spring: the nighttime groaning of the area lakes, and the metallic  crackling 
of the lacy ice. It was raking off the frozen leaves from the flower  beds, 
being careful not to harm the first pale shoots. It was getting the Spring  
seed catalog and putting away the sleds. It was Mom taking out the boxes of our  
lighter clothing and folding away the sweaters and down jackets. It was 
suddenly  realizing the sun did not go down at five o'clock anymore.
 
We have Spring, too.  But, it is only in the north that we experience  it in 
all its dramatic glory.  We have flowers here that bloom all year.  But, how I 
long for Lilacs and Lily Of the Valleys, and the fruit blossoms on  all the 
hillsides out at the Arboretum.  How I miss watching the new  leaves on the 
Walnut trees we planted along the creek. The tadpoles down by the  dam at the end 
of the lake. The return of the Redwing Blackbirds in the  cattails, The geese 
and ducks winging and singing in from their long migrations.  You tuning up 
the old mower.
 
 
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