. . . turns to running streams, frogs, mud, and that wonderfully fresh, earthy smell in the air that I remember from early April days in my childhood. I've never lived any place where seasons can be experienced so intensely as Grand Island, New York. And it's hard to express the thrill we felt when winter finally started to dissolve into spring; when one could venture outdoors without being immobilized by heavy clothing, when the sounds of wildlife could be heard again, and warm sunshine mixed with cool air in a most invigorating way.
Melany and I were walking our dog Frank along the Erie Canal near our house last week, when she stopped, listened, and asked me what that chorus of chirping noises was. I told her it was all the frogs in a marsh that bordered the canal path, and about how loud and omnipresent that spring music was when we grew up almost surrounded by marshes on Staley Road on the Island. That got me thinking about how we'd go back into those swamps and catch tadpoles in old jars.
And that took me back to other early spring adventures that I, my brothers, and sister had in the woods and fields around our house. We'd find some ditch full of water, dam it up with rocks or fallen branches, and divert it into a new stream, creating rapids and waterfalls that we "sailed" sticks and improvised boats over as if we'd just fashioned Niagara itself. If only we could sustain that kind of energy and imagination into adulthood--there's nothing we might not accomplish!
Please feel free to share your own springtime memories here!