As winter fades and Wisconsin begins to thaw, the changing season brings renewal not only to the land but also to the human spirit. Writer Ron Weber explores how the arrival of spring awakens long-forgotten memories, and he invites us to rediscover the sense of wonder that often lies dormant within us.
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“A Spring Song”
We look forward to it with the anticipation of a child waiting for a midnight visit from Santa. Winter has been long, and though we may have enjoyed all the sledding, skating, ice fishing, and snowmobiling, we are more than ready for its coming. As the snow and ice recede under a sun whose zenith climbs minutely higher with each passing day, we ready ourselves for the season of rebirth. Spring comes with many sights, sounds and scents emerging on a once-frozen landscape, awakening feelings and memories, some of which we may have thought long forgotten.
For me, the first true sign of spring is the sound of water on the move whether it be dripping off the big maple in our front yard, flowing down our driveway, or rushing through the stream out back toward Soft Maple creek, the Chippewa River and eventually the sea. That sound can be heard both day and night now, though I especially enjoy the soft music it makes at night while the rest of the world is asleep. Out there in the darkness. Mysterious. Beckoning.
This is not a mere tinkling of water as Aldo Leopold noted in his January thaw that awoke a skunk and summoned him out of his den for an evening of gallivanting across the countryside. This sound has an urgency to it, a purpose, a permanence. There is no stopping it or going back. Spring is coming now, a cold night or snowy day simply an inconvenience.
Fisher Creek spring thaw near the Rock River Railway in Janesville, Wis. Photo courtesy of Kelly Dora/Flickr
In an instant, I am 10 years old again following a stick I had thrown in the ditch, swollen with snow melt or rain, now carrying both the stick and me downstream. Nearing a culvert I am amazed by the sight of a small whirlpool, which spins the stick crazily and sucks it out of sight and into the culvert. Running to the other side of the driveway, I silently wish that the hand of fate allows the stick safe passage. Sometimes the stick never emerges, but this time it does and the chase continues. In stream obstructions slow the progress here and there, but eventually we are moving again. Usually a hungry culvert ultimately ends the journey, though once or twice we made it all the way to the larger creek a quarter mile or so from my house.
Those journeys with the sticks led to all sorts of discoveries and high adventure. An empty beer can in the ditch was fished out and upon inspection revealed a crayfish, which had crawled inside. This inspired me to check other cans and eventually to enlarge the hole in the can just slightly to make it so inviting to more and larger crayfish.
One year, a particularly heavy snow melt and subsequent rains flooded a field and a section of the woods behind our house. We first waded into this ephemeral wonder but soon figured out the most adventurous way to explore it would be by canoe. And so for the first and only time we were sailors on the high seas, expertly guiding our craft through the perilous trees and bushes we heretofore ran through.
The snow will eventually melt, the rains will come and water will again start its journey across the land. Ditches and creeks will swell, carrying their precious cargo seaward. Here is hoping that the young and young at heart still take the time to throw a stick into the flowing water and chase after it. Those lucky enough to do just that may get an education of sorts and find that not only does it fill their day, but their memory as well.
