Open Writing

After one of the coldest winters I have experienced, Spring broke good and early, warming the earth, setting the buds on the deciduous trees, inviting warm blooded birds to fly back to northern climes, and warming the rivers so the fish would run.

Wise Montanans grumbled.

"Ah, yes, very pretty, but we need more snow. It’s too dry, and if we don’t get it, we’ll suffer drought in the summer."

How different this was to Yorkshire attitudes where rain has to be nobly endured with a grudging, "It’ll do the gardens good!" In Montana, they are happy to see the rain because the wildlife and fish depend on it.

Rising from the bitter cold of January and February, late March provided regular days where the temperature was between forty and fifty degrees Fahrenheit. I tell the natives that this is "High Summer" in England!

As April broke, the temperature hit sixty, then seventy, until the ides of April when eighty and over became normal days. The promise of early summer before spring was over prompted me to take down the plastic sheet at the end of the veranda. It had kept the worst off the snow from reaching our front door and cut wind chill to a tolerable level. 3

I even got out my rickety man-trap ladder and took down the last few strings of outside Christmas lights – not a task to tackle when a couple of feet of snow might slide off the roof and bury a poor working man trying not to appear as a slacker to the handful of humans who pass our place.

Feeling very summery, I gave my lawnmower a few bumpy circuits on the meadow but didn’t cut any grass because one of the blades has bent to an alarming angle, and even at highest setting, the deformed blade digs into the ground squirrel mounds.

I have bought a couple of blades at bargain price off E-bay and when they come I will skim the tops off the dandelions and, a couple of weeks after that, I will decapitate the wick red nasties that nothing can kill.

After that, I took the mower to the front ground where the land begins its slope down to the well house and the creek, and washed it with hosepipe, washing up liquid, and a hand brush. I opened the bonnet and bubble scrubbed the engine and other moving parts, then hosed all the grime and bits of old grass that pack themselves into odd corners before letting it dry and applying a good coat of wax until every part gleamed like new.

I checked the oil, topped it up, and then took the air filter apart. Inside, I found all the materials I needed to make bricks, including straw. After a lot of banging to dislodge the good earth dust, buts of grass, seeds, and general muck, I turned the key in the ignition and, surprisingly, even after its high pressure deluge, it started like a hero.

Getting ready for summer takes a lot of time, but the warm sun that reddens the skin, and banishes my Seasonal Affective Disorder gloom, makes it all worthwhile.

Last Tuesday the outside thermometer hit eighty-four. The weather report had promised scattered thunderstorms for our area, but the sky remained cerulean, and not a cloud passed between us and the sun to threaten even the smallest rumble to intrude in our daylong sunny peacefulness.

We kept the door open all day. Frankie ran in and out from early morning until late evening, giving notice in short insistent barks to our squirrels that she was on guard and they’d better get up their trees if they didn’t want trouble in the sharp shape of her canine canines.

The wind got up in the afternoon. The trees swayed and creaked all around us, but this time none came down. I drove into town to pick up a gallon of milk and learned that a tree had come down on Lake Creek Road bringing down power lines and setting fire to some brush.

When I got back home, I found that it was our supply line. As the evening dusk dropped from the mountains, we lit oil lamps. They gave dim but cheerful light. After a break of five and a half hours, the power came back on.

After dinner, full and somewhat exhausted from my labours, I sat with Gay and Frankie. Gay was quilting for a little girl going to be born this coming September down in Arizona. Frankie was in her "I’m scared" hidey-hole between the small table with the lamp and Gay’s plush pink rocking chair, facing the wall so the noises outside can’t get her.

I reclined on the settee like a Roman emperor, letting my dinner settle and guessing the clues on what was left of Jeopardy, a favourite TV quiz show.

The noise came on so slowly that I hardly noticed it until its volume broke through the house noises. I looked at Gay. She read my mind and said, "Rain!"

I didn’t believe her. I went out to look. Gay was right, as usual! First a drizzle, them a downpour, then a total drencher. The puddle holes in our lane filled before my very eyes. Shades of Noah! Animals were gathering into groups of two!

After a few minutes, whatever was falling on the metal roof sounded like Gene Krupa on fast forward with the volume all the way up. Time to investigate again. I went outside. The hail was pea sized, but before my very eyes stones the size of glass marbles replaced the small stuff! I caught a couple to take inside for Gay to see, but they had melted in my hot hands before I got them through the door.

Next, we were treated to a symphony of thunder and lightning for over an hour, while the rain and hail continued to cover the ground and flood our low places, and was still at it when we called it a day a little after midnight.

I woke up at four a.m. and went outside to see how much water was laid on our land, and to check if we were afloat. What a sight greeted my tired eyes! Snow was piled on the south end of the veranda, the trees were draped in white, and the SUV looked like a themed iced celebration cake. Never mind an early summer. Where had spring gone?

Later that morning we had another rainstorm. However, this time the rain was warm and washed the trees clear of snow. By noon the sun was melting the ground snow, and mid afternoon saw everything returned to normal, including a high seventies temperature that had me asking myself, "Snow? What snow?"

My neighbour, Walt, said he had almost put his snow blade back on his pickup truck, but said he wasn’t bothered because we needed the moisture. I didn’t tell him that it would do the gardens good. But, it goes to show that when locals tell you that spring doesn’t come until June, they just might know what they are talking about, even if it begins to look otherwise.

Well, the bad night with rain, hail, thunder, lightning, and snow, was only a glitch, and normal springtime and early summer have been resumed.

I hope!

Copyright © 2004
Ronnie Bray
All rights reserved
E-mail: Quill @ libby . org