How to Know It's Finally Spring

Where I live, spring rushes through, pushed by summer, so that identifying the first signs of spring is like grabbing for the ring on a merry-go-round. Azaleas and highway phlox appear and mockingbirds court, but by the time magnolia trees bloom and the highway phlox stretches across fields and yards, afternoon temperatures are summery, then hot, all within weeks.

In the Heights, where I grew up, spring was leisurely, and we savored each small change that promised the end of winter. I had a mental check-off list and caught as many signs as possible each year.

Icicles dripped and fell from eaves. Snow retreated and offered mud, making our old rubbery, clasp boots a risk. Occasionally, you’d leave a boot behind in the mud as you lifted your foot.

Silver, red, and sugar maples budded so that the tips of trees branches were dotted and softened.

A sugar maple halfway down Caroline Street was my seasonal announcer. One of the first to bud in March, by summer, its leaves blew backward in a coming storm, and in autumn, it burst into flames with color until raking time. The tree still stands in the middle of the front yard, and I miss celebrating seasons with it.

Sugar maples were tapped for sap.

The Troy nature center demonstrates the maple syrup process in their sugar shed with a wood-fed evaporator to boil sap into sugar. The Cranbrook Science museum makes and sells their local syrup, as well. Those first, slow drips into buckets make a finished product seem impossible since it takes about 40 gallons of sap for one gallon of syrup, but there’s no flavor as bright, crisp, and memorable as real maple syrup.

The tapping and boiling sap process began in March, when the air was still cold, and there might be snow and ice in the woods. When we were young, we collected freshly-fallen snow in cups, topped it with maple syrup, and made our own homemade candy.

In the marshy woods, spring peepers and gray tree frogs began a symphony to their frogettes. Trilliums appeared in the maple woods along Adams Road. Marsh marigolds and wild geraniums added color. Forsythia bushes produced a golden yellow froth of blossoms across my Grandma’s front yard in Pontiac.

Wood frogs joined the spring chorus, and returning robins, who set up housekeeping by collecting any nest material that would entice a wife, trilled their lilting melody. Anyone hearing that familiar tune felt encouraged about spring.

Red-winged blackbirds called across swamps and marshes, even visited bird feeders for their avian carry-out. When I was very young, I called their melody a “rain song,” because it reminded me of water.

Daffodils and crocuses braved the cold. Weeping willows became Monet paintings, impressionistic artwork in soft yellow and green.

Snowdrops poked through the snow, and the first signs of grass showed, as bright green as a crayon.

The temperatures swung from cold to chilly to mild, and the sky seemed as soft a blue as a robin’s egg.

Cherry and crabapple trees bloomed, turning orchards into pink and white fairyland.

One of my favorite sights, and one of the earliest in the season, were pussy willows. I didn’t realize how many species of pussy willows there were, but my favorite did look like white kitten fur. If I could collect any, I’d let them dry and keep them as long as possible.

By the time dandelions and lilacs appeared, there was no question that spring had unfolded in the Heights, and lawn-mowing was imminent.

Oh, I forgot to list another sign of early spring, one not so welcome, one that you’re all familiar with.

Snow.