An early hint of spring ~ February 16, 2003

David Heiller

I couldn’t quite believe it when I stepped onto the deck on Saturday morning.

It was like seeing an old friend in a crowd. Wow, Hello. How are you!

I shook the rug over the top of the railing, then draped it there to freshen it up. And I draped myself there too, leaning back, eyes closed.

The sun felt warm, the breeze off the river just soft and fresh enough to bring a fleeting thought to mind.

Spring.

We all receive that first hint of spring in different ways, but mine is sure-fire. I walked into the house, grabbed my fiddle, and returned to my spot. The fiddle almost played itself, first a familiar waltz, then a new tune, one that escapes me as I write this a day later, but one that had the new season as its theme.

David and his fiddle

A little later Cindy and I took a walk to the old Oesterle farm across the road. It’s one of our favorite walks. The ground was still hard from a night in the high twenties. But the snow was patchy enough for us to wear regular shoes and not our boots. Three weeks earlier we were snowshoeing on this fine path. But Saturday, well, once again it felt like spring. The dogs bounded ahead, then Rosie took a side trip into the high grass and disappeared the way dachshunds like to do.

We called for her a few times, then kept walking. No dog was going to ruin this spring walk, down to the white pines, past the old wind mill, then around the corn field that Duane so graciously left standing for the deer and turkeys.

Then back home, basking in the sun and wind and a carefree Saturday morning. Rosie met us in the driveway, tail whirling like a helicopter. “Weren’t you worried, weren’t you worried?” she seemed to ask.

“Νah,” we answered silently. “It’s spring, what is there to worry about?”

It wasn’t long after that that the spell was broken. Cindy got dressed for work; I donned my camera gear and headed off to a wrestling tournament. February and reality had returned.

Still, it’s fun to take those teasing doses of spring when they hit. The cardinal calls that seem to have new energy. The eagle leaving his nest on Hanke’s hill. The coyotes yipping across the road. The broadwing hawk crying out with freedom that puts out paltry politics to shame.

And the valley below. Wow, what a sight. The south face is totally bare of snow. Then there is a line drawn like the fine brush of a Sara Lubinski painting, and the north face is covered with snow. Nature is creeping along with spring in tow, and the hills aren’t lying. Can it be long until Steve Serres is out there searching for morels?