Confesiones a un Árbol: Goodbye Winter, Hello Spring

GOODBYE WINTER, HELLO SPRING

Source: Internet

Toward the end of March and the beginning of April, nature takes a dramatic turn before my eyes here in New Hampshire. While the Southern Hemisphere transitions from summer to autumn, up here in the north, winter drags its feet as it retreats before the spectacular push of a season that seems to have been created by God in a sublime moment of inspiration: Spring.

By nearly five in the morning, the natural light is already there, and my sleep is interrupted not by the alarm clock on my nightstand, but by the chirping of an army of little birds singing to the dawn, seeming to tell me through the window: “Come on, lazybones, there’s plenty of life out here!”

Just a few days ago, it was dark at five, and even at six in the morning. The mercury in the thermometers remained slumped at sub-zero temperatures. Stealthy squirrels roamed the blanket of snow that covered the surroundings of my house, searching among the few gaps immune to the snow for the last acorns fallen from the oaks and other trees during the previous autumn.

As happens every morning, at 5:15 I wake Dorothy so she can get ready for school, and forty-five minutes later, Terry. This is only the early “warning,” as a few minutes later I must make sure they actually get out of bed. In the meantime, I prepare the same breakfast I’ve been having for twenty years: a bowl of cereal with raisins, two prunes, and a splash of soy milk. Between spoonfuls, I catch up on the news and check social media.

April is a month of rain and flooding in New Hampshire. The temperature turns more lukewarm than warm, but it rains a lot. Around my house, the large white mounds where I pile the snow during winter begin to melt more rapidly. The rivers and streams rise and tend to overflow. The ground becomes soaked, and water seeps into the basements, flooding them.

To fix this situation, most homes have a pumping system in the basement that collects water in a tank and pushes it outside. In the early morning of December 12, 2008, a powerful ice storm ravaged New Hampshire, toppling trees, and we lost power. The pump stopped working, and the basement began to flood. For hours, my wife and I hauled water in buckets up the stairs to the first floor, throwing it into the backyard. In the morning, the pump started working again thanks to a neighbor who let us use a cord connected to his generator. After this experience, I saved up and bought my own generator.

Every day, Dorothy and I leave the house at seven in the morning; I drop her off at school and continue to work. On the way, I plan out the day’s routine in my head. I try to get to the office about fifteen minutes before eight, as the employees wait for my instructions. I am the supervisor of a company that provides design, construction, and maintenance services for green areas in large estates. We take care of their private woods, gardens, and lawns. And spring is the busiest season for our work.

What I associate most with the onset of spring is the return of the birds. They emerge from nowhere with the break of dawn, and the world becomes a music box. Immense flocks of birds arrive in my neighborhood; in their flight, they draw patterns in the blue sky decorated with cotton-like clouds. Occasionally, they enter my backyard and perch on the bare bones of the leafless trees. For a few minutes, the skeletal branches turn lush, dressed in noisy dark birds that, like little heralds, announce the arrival of leaves in early May.

After meeting with my boss and the company staff at our office in the city of Dover, at eight in the morning we head to North Hampton in various vehicles. This town is nearly an hour away, and that’s where most of the properties where we work are located. I don’t like to drive, so I put one of the employees behind the wheel. I prefer to keep my eyes and my mind free. These are precious moments to appreciate the landscape and go over the day's program. Our clients are demanding; their green areas must look like true earthly paradises. “We aren't manual laborers; we are artists,” I always repeat to the staff.

During the first days of April, the “mountains” of snow around the house shrink. My gardens remain semi-buried by mounds of snow surrounded by a surface of ice. But the bulbs of the perennial plants that sleep underground during the winter know it’s time to emerge from their lethargy to greet the spring. Lilies, peonies, and tulips—with delicacy and determination—break through the crust of ice, like a subtle love that cracks the shell of the hardest heart.

In the properties of North Hampton, I venture into solitary woods where the only sound is the murmur of the wind and the crunching of dry branches and leaves under my feet. The birds seem to rest after the feverish bustle of the early morning hours. Every now and then, you hear a vehicle rolling down the deserted street, but the most noticeable sound is always the silence. Sometimes I feel as if I hear my father’s voice calling me, “Eduardo.” I look for him among the trees, but I don’t see him. Regardless, I greet him, and for a few moments in my mind, I talk with that man whose life’s great passion was precisely plants.

In part of Europe, spring arrives earlier. I lived in London before moving to New Hampshire in 2003. In 1998, Terry was pregnant with Dorothy, my only daughter. In the fall of that year, my wife planted some crocus bulbs in the little garden in front of our apartment. Her hope was that they would bloom toward the end of February the following year, when my daughter was due. Dorothy was born a week earlier than expected and stayed in the hospital for a few days. When I brought her home in my arms on Monday the twenty-second, the beautiful crocuses had just bloomed.

At the end of each afternoon, our work is done, and we make our way back to Dover. The trees on both sides of the road seem to slide in the opposite direction of the vehicle. You can hear the spring serenade from choruses of spring peepers (a variety of tiny frogs) who, from the stagnant waters of the woods, fill the world with their relaxing symphony. I settle back in my seat and close my eyes. My thoughts scribble bits of verses, outlines of stories, and pieces of information. Much of which I won’t be able to remember when I sit down to write in front of the computer, but there is something spring always evokes: My class of 1967, when I started primary school and Teacher Eva Carbajal de García taught us to sing “De colores, de colores se visten los campos en la primavera…”

A few hours ago, we arrived in Dover, and I am already home. The night unfolds its first shadows. I sit in front of my laptop. Today, Monday of the third week of April, the last trace of snow in front of my house melted away. A long, hard winter has been left behind. I have opened the windows to let in the joy of spring, and I have let its fresh breeze write this story.

New Hampshire, USA

April 2014