April 30

April at an end. Late this afternoon, in the warmth of the spring sunshine that we have so desperately craved, I sat in the middle of the front lawn with the dogs, doing nothing more than letting the sun hit my face and listening to the sounds of spring.

The lawn is just beginning to green and lengthen, and the dogs were content to simply sit idly on their sides with tongues lolling out. It is a contentment we could only imagine not too long ago and as much as nature is expressing her desire to “hurry, hurry” toward maturity, I want no more than the pace to slacken now. These are days to be alive, to “rejoice evermore” in the words of New Englander John Adams, who quoted Thessalonians.

The lawn is gathering dandelions now, and they fit nicely among the violets that have been taking hold increasingly each year. I won’t need to mow for another few weeks, and that is mostly to even the lawn, yet this first cut also sadly removes the purples and yellows that color the front.

April 29

Last evening was the first time in which the chill didn’t settle in, and we were able to enjoy 50s well after sunset. It’s a decadent feeling to be outside listening to the spring peepers and watching the stars appear one-by-one, while we stand in the driveway with only light clothing upon us.

The sky was as clear as can be, and apart from a thin layer of clouds on the western horizon, the stars twinkled seemingly close at hand. Jupiter was especially bright, perhaps 30 degrees above the west, and Saturn had just risen over the eastern horizon, which was lightly polluted with the Holden lights but not so that it lessened Saturn’s shine.

We brought the small telescope up to the town fields across from the college, and I set up the scope to view Saturn. The astronomers indicate that Saturn’s inclination just now is tilted so that we have the best view of its polar region, which accentuates its rings as you see them from below and not edge on. Plus, Earth’s orbit is closest now to Saturn (though admittedly, the distance isn’t that profound); perhaps it’s better to express it that Saturn’s orbit is closest to Earth.

The scope didn’t fail us, and we were rewarded with a spectacular view. Saturn was fairly tiny, but its rings showed majestically.

It is a humbling feeling to view such a giant and know that it is so very far away – so much that the light takes over an hour to reach our eyes.

April 28

Things are beginning to appear now at an increasing pace, as the weather warms the soil with the sun inching higher in its inclination.

A towhee arrived at the feeder this afternoon, jumping about and backscratching in their way to locate seed. We were doing work on our back deck, which desperately needed sanding and a bit of refinishing for protection, when we first heard the bird’s scuffle scuffle in the dried leaves on the berm between the feeder and the access road. Then we saw it take flight to the feeder area, giving a nice view of its markings of orange and black with white pips here and there. These are comical birds to watch search for food, as their back scratch hop reminds me of an old jitterbug dance step, where you jump back and at an angle with two feet, then jump forward at a different angle.

We took the dogs for a walk later in the afternoon, down the hill toward Robinson’s Greenhouse, then further on to where lower Grove flattens in an area with wetlands on both sides. When the leaves come out fully in a few weeks, this portion of the road will be shaded nearly through, and it is a respite from the heat that builds in the summer sun.

Poking up from the deadfall leaves on both sides of the road are fiddleheads, dozens of them maybe five inches high and curled right over in preparation of opening and spreading their broad leaves. These are cinnamon ferns, which tend to prefer the low land areas and moister conditions. I’m told the fiddleheads in their juvenile state are edible, and connoisseurs boil the tender curls to cook the leaves.

Several weeks from now these ferns will have expanded fully, and the surrounding woods will have leafed, creating a darkened and primeval feeling.

April 27

There is nothing so fulfilling as the smell of April in the morning after a shower has moistened the land, and the sun has breached the clouds to warm the day.

The scents now are too numerous and rewarding, where only a few weeks ago there was nothing of interest.

The Earth itself is filled with a loamy smell, of green shoots and turning soil, and humus left over from last autumn. The air carriers the scents of elm pollen and daffodil fragrance, and there is the smell of the field now turned and awaiting the plow.

The grass in the yard is greening, and the buds on the viburnum and the lilac are fattening. Soon they will blossom in a perfusion of May.

Even the sidewalks, streets and walkways seem to whisper of life restored, for the ants have emerged, the worms turn out after the shower, the petals of the crocus now past prime lay strewn about, and the infusion of it all with sun and water blends a spring that fills us with life.

April 26

The full Pink Moon rose just as twilight settled in, and the disk was visible through the still bare trees of the lower woods to the east. These same trees accentuated the commonly held illusion that the moon appears so large on the horizon. It appeared so this night, and indeed the rising disk took on a decidedly pinkish hue as it lifted upward through the distant atmosphere.

The pink name may be on account of the atmospheric conditions that spring affords. Perhaps April has just the right amount of humidity and particles, such as pollen and dust, that the refraction of the sun’s rays favor the reds hitting the moon while it is still low in the horizon.

Or perhaps the name is recognition of the pink that frequent the floral hues this time of year, as we enjoy our azaleas and hepatica, and even tulips are possible in the lower valleys of the state.

April 25

The season’s first harvest was gathered today across the road, and we’ve come to listen for this as a true harbinger of spring readiness.

The tractor moved slowly up and down the field, with front bucket lowered nearly to the ground, and Fred walked just in front, stopping occasionally to bend down and lift the crop into the bucket.

“Bang,” followed by another “bang,” as each was dropped unceremoniously into the filling maw. These are heavy and make quite the rapport as they collide with one another or the metal bucket sides.

Some call them New England potatoes, and this seems fairly apt, as each year a new crop of rocks of such size and larger are brought to the surface by winter’s freeze and thaw forces. It’s amazing really, particularly from this Midwesterner’s point of view, where our soils tended to be uniformly smooth and I imagine trouble free for the plow and harrow.

Here is just the opposite, and we frequently hear the plow bang against some unseen rock, making the till that much more work. Hence the early harvest, where at least those of observable size can be removed and placed on the field’s periphery.

This is after all the region of New England stone walls whose presence pays regard to a time when Massachusetts was more farm land than not. I imagine the work required two hundred years ago to hand cut the timber, clear the stumps, remove the stones by placing them as a wall, and plowing the new land, all by hand or oxen.

We have one such wall that runs from west to east along the periphery at the access road next to the house, down to the lower garden, then lower still until the forest turns, whereupon the wall cuts 90 degrees northward. I’m told it marks what was long ago an actual potato field – not the kind we see being harvested today.

April 24

Someone plowed the field across the road this morning, the same field that had been dusty white from lime these past two days. I heard the “chug chug” of the tractor just after dawn and went out the front door to have a nosy look at what was taking place at the farm so early.

The wind must have been just right, for the exhaust from the diesel tractor drifted by – not noxiously but rather tinting the air in a way that stirred memories of my childhood hauling hay in northern Michigan. There is something distinct in the smell of a running tractor, and the smell of today is exactly the same as that of over 30 years ago, when we kids worked the bales onto the flatbed, pulled behind the Oliver tractor. These are happy memories, of June days in the sun and hard work, where we’d pile tier after tier maybe 9 high onto the flatbed as it bounced along the rolling field. Then off to the mow in the barn, we’d sit high up and stack while the elevator lifted bale after bale, dropping them in succession for us to position.

The tractor pulled the reaching plow behind, turning eight feet or more of soil and mixing the lime underneath. Back and forth he went, slowly creating the newly turned field, which is a dark brown color, moist and laden with small rocks. The fields look clean right now, free of crop and weeds, dust and plastic, and we remark each year that it looks like a field of chocolate waiting for harvest.

April 23

As if overnight, the daffodils and grape hyacinths blossomed forth in a profusion of yellow and purple along our walkway and on the edges of the knot garden in front.

We’ve been watching the daff shoots for over a month, initially seeing them only after having removed the snow drifts enough to locate their small yellow-green blades desperately in search of sunlight and warmth. In the shady spots of the house, the buds are still closed and leaning over from their own weight, though there are indications of the yellow petals that will emerge tucked protectively within the outer sepals.

The hyacinths simply make me smile, each seemingly delicate stalk host to dozens of bell-shaped tiny purple clusters, almost grape-like in both appearance and in odor. Hence the name, of course. The bees seem to prefer them, now that the crocuses and snow drops have run their course.

Spring is giving way to the yellow hues, pinks and purples, as is the norm this time of year. Soon the azaleas will blossom all pink and yellow in various shades. The periwinkle (Vinca minor) is also showing evidence of putting forth its small five petal purple blossoms, and I like these particularly, because they look tropical to me, similar to the way in which hibiscus flowers are tucked within the deep greens of its verdant parent plant. Occasionally, the Vinca will produce clusters of white flowers, and I wonder if it is a simple genetic mutant, a variant absent of pigment to the purple norm.

April 22

The fields across the road went through several changes today. In the morning, row upon row of black lanes progressed from left to right – the plastic covering that shields the plants from weeds and helps retain moisture. This morning, only the sere stalks and remnant leftover of last autumn’s crop shown through the orderly holes that occurred at intervals in the black lanes.

Fred began pulling up the plastic in the midmorning, starting at the far end of each row and lifting the edge enough until the wind caught underneath to pull the rest. Long streams of plastic would catch like flags in the wind, shaking off pieces of stuck soil and plant matter. After all was said and done, he packed away the plastic, leaving only the brown of the fallow field, interspersed with small rocks and cast off crops long since decomposed.

Later in the day the tractor was out, spreading lime on the same field. Up and back slowly it went, throwing the white powder in such a way that after it was complete, the field looked as if a light dusting of snow had fallen there.

April 21

In Tucson

Throughout the day a flicker comes to visit, seeking out the red candle blossoms of the ocotillo cactus. It perches near the top and inspects each tiny red flower, bell shaped and in clusters and placed just so that the flicker put its beak in a dozen flowers in a minute’s time.

It has the same markings as those which frequent our lawns in Paxton, though its personality is decidedly less shy. Ours will fly low to the ground, stopping almost furtively to search for grubs and insects in the lawn, taking flight at the slightest disturbance. This desert relative pays no mind to my presence below it, seeking its fare and calling below in the way of flickers, a cross between the jay’s squawk and the grackle’s two-tone alarm.

April 20

In Tucson

The sun crested the eastern Rincon Mountains at 6:10 this morning. I was standing on a hill in just a position to see the Tucson Mountains far to the west, the Rincons to the east, and the Catalina Range dominating the north.

The sunrise first shown on the tips of the Tucson range and slowly descended down the slopes, giving the impression of the mountains rising slowly as one to meet the new day. Then, the halo of gold brightened enough on the eastern Rincon in anticipation of the sun’s rays cresting the summit and striking where I stood in greeting.

The only sounds that accompanied were the periodic calls of mourning doves traveling among the saguaro forest and the occasional cardinal expressing itself from the top of a mesquite tree.

Quickly did the sun’s warmth awaken the desert, and a gentle breeze stirred from the north as if the land were sighing awake.

April 19

In Tucson

The desert wildflowers are so beautiful, in part because of the harshness in which the flourish. This year I’m told is a good year on account of the rains that came in February and March, encouraging even the most reluctant foliage to display color.

Here are my favorites: The ocotillo are all in bloom and leaf, strange looking stalks with tiny leaves and small fiery red candle clusters on each long arm, looking similar to the flowers of our sumac trees, but more orange in flower than red.  The prickly pear pads seem to be in competition among one another to produce the perfect shade of yellow and orange, with some as pink. The flowers on the tops of the pads open quickly at midmorning, when the sun’s rays warm the plant. They remain displayed throughout the day, and close again at dusk. Pentsimon reminds me of the Catchfly coloring, striking pink and tiny petals on a light colored and corded stalk. It seems to favor dry washes and trail sides.

The Palo Verde trees are covered in tiny yellow flowers, thousands tucked within its branches, giving the tree a constellation of green and yellow, delicate looking as it moves about in the breeze.

April 18

In Tucson

The Jasmine is blooming on the vines that cover the adobe house where we are staying. When the sun’s rays crest the mountains on the eastern horizon in the morning, they strike a wall resplendent with the vines, and the perfume that is released makes me think of the Egyptian scents that I’ve only read about.

Small breezes pick up the scent and combine with the smells of mesquite and blooming Palo Verde, and the smell of the desert in the morning is like no other.

April 17

Morning walks are more inviting than just a couple of weeks ago, and we look forward to the sights and sounds and emotions that are a part of this time. Only yesterday, it seems, did I feel the harshness of late winter’s sting, the bite of the air against any exposed skin, the feeble sun, so low in the sky to provide little warmth, or the silence of life still in slumber.

Winter walks are made for introspection, for bundling up to draw our own fires within, as the harsh austerity that surrounds reminds us of our frailties and solitudes.

Spring is our own time to seek renewal, to look once again at the hillside and see the horizon through the still leafless trees. Soon the warmth of the sun will make the vistas hide beneath a canopy of life and leaf anew, and we will be in wonder of the growth and vibrancy. It is a time to look around for yourself and feel the pulse of beginnings.

April 16

The red maples have gone fully to catkins in abundance, giving the trees a notably red glow when seen from a distance. It is particularly evident in the lower elevations of the hollows near Moore State Park, which seem to be a week ahead on spring than our local ecosystem on Grove Street.

The maples will soon pollen, catching up with the Elm and Juniper that have evidently been distributing their wares for the past week. I have had a persistent tickle in the back of my throat and a slight scratchiness with all that's floating about.

In a strange way, the landscape has an almost holiday coloring, as the slowly greening lawns and grasses are cast in relief against the glowing red of the maples. It is warming to see the color return to the woodlands and lawns, even if it is so slow in coming. Soon, we will be assaulted with greens and colors in plenty, as life accelerates toward summer growth.

April 15

It’s been nearly five months since Venus departed as the morning star, and I am anxious for her to reappear in evening form. It should be soon, perhaps within a week or two, we may see her wink briefly just after sunset, hanging in the twilight horizon of the western sky.

She will slowly climb, night after night rising higher in the sky and staying longer after dark, the brightest beacon in this spring and summer evenings.

Nine months hence and she will revert to our morning star. The ancients considered her a signal of fertility, slowly measuring the days from conception to birth, a shining brilliance in the sky that traverses back and forth between morning and evening.

April 14

Some of the spring wildflowers are out in the surrounding woods and wetlands. I went searching this afternoon for May Apples and Marsh Marigolds, but didn’t locate a single one.

I did come upon a small patch of Coltsfoot near the outlet of the sewer line road that intersects lower Grove Street almost at the point where it bends to become Pond Street. At first, I thought it was a patch of early dandelion or even hawkweed, with the petals being the same striking yellow, and the shape as similar. The stem was unique though, resembling a braid with small leaflets alternating in whorl from base to flower.

I’ve read Coltsfoot is a European transplant, now taken to weed, preferring poorer soils that drain slowly. All the same, I’ll return in a week or two to collect any seeds for my vials.

April 13

We had a cool rainy day today, raw feeling really and decidedly less like April and more like early March.

At one point this afternoon, I looked out the front window and counted 14 robins spread out on the front yard, each busy intently on searching for food. It was fascinating to watch, for it was clear that each bird would pause briefly after moving quickly to a new location, cock its head just so to see, and either move on to a new location or stab purposefully at the grass.

I watched a single bird move about this way, and I counted a rate of roughly 1 perceived prey to 4 disregards. Of those times when it did peck at the ground, it seemed to capture some larvae or worm on most occasions. It’s amazing really, that its hearing is so acute so as to sense the movement of so small a quarry a half inch or so below the ground.

The day- long rain has flooded the ground, still saturated from the melted snow, and I suspect that the worms and grubs have come to the surface so as not to drown. April rains that deluge so, often cause scores of worms to erupt and make for drier conditions, which is usually the driveway or roadbed. It’s no wonder that robins are so plentiful now.

April 12

The early morning temperatures were in the upper 40s, and when I opened the side door to listen, seemingly hundreds of spring peepers and wood frogs were in chorus with the dawn birdsong.

I suspect that the vernal pool is teeming with frogs and salamanders now, laying egg masses and calling to mates in what is an assured calendar mark of April.

The Hyla spring peeper has been occasionally sounding for the past several days, as has been the duck-like call of the wood frog. It is as if the early arrivers had been coming to practice in preparation for the main chorus, waiting for a warm night of spring to signal that the calling season has begun.

The tree frog is a tiny little thing, not much bigger than your thumb nail, yet strident enough that its “peep peep” can easily be heard above the forest din. These Hylas are more secretive, and despite their numbers we rarely spot one upon chance. The wood frogs do come to visit in the summer, and we usually see them among the flower gardens, jumping quickly away if startled, their masked face reminiscent of an old-fashioned burglar that has been caught off guard.

And so in all our usual locations, the sounds of peepers and other frogs will welcome us in the pre-dawn and again in the evening hours.

April 11

It’s impossible not to smile at the persistence of the bees as they work the crocus blossoms. In the late afternoon, as the sun begins to dip lower on the horizon, and the flowers start to close up for the day, the bees are still busy trying desperately to poke their way inward. If successful, they nearly disappear within as the blossom shakes about, the insects insistently searching for the nectaries deep within the receptacle.

As they back out of the flower, they are covered in yellow-orange pollen – often so that it necessitates a ritual cleaning. The bees almost perch on the side of the crocus as they use their legs to brush their antennae clean, moving the pollen downward across their body as they wiggle and force it along. Finally, they push as much as they can into the pollen baskets on their hind legs before taking flight again.

April 10

The first honeybees, Apis meliflora, visited our crocus blossoms today. It was a clear, still, and relatively warm afternoon, and at some point during the warming day, the first foraging workers must have ventured out to find our pitiful early fare.

A neighbor keeps several bee boxes in the northern corner of the farm field, which is only a few hundred yards as the crow flies, across the road, through the tall spruce line, and over the undulating vegetable field. In the winter, the bees are clustered together inside the hives, ever rotating within a tight ball so that they conserve heat. On calm days in midwinter, when the temperature is so cold outside, I’ve put my ear to the side of the box and listened to the dull hum of the bees within.

Now I imagine that scouts have been leaving the hives for a couple of weeks, looking desperately for pollen and nectar sources to report back. It’s difficult to think that our twenty or so crocuses could cause much excitement, but to look at them now in the afternoon sun loaded with bees going in and out of each one makes you think the pickings are good.

The air is still right now, and I can clearly hear the calls of several birds – some in the spruce line, some in the north woods, and others behind the house near the feeder no doubt. Now joining the chorus are the emergent insects that are beginning to buzz about.

These insects will be the fodder for our new bird migrants that soon will come, our grosbeaks, catbirds, wrens, and orioles. Spring is continuing to arrive.

April 9

On Marshall Street, just past Kettlebrook where the road dips down hill and intersects with Hill Road, is a nice patch of wetland on the southeast corner of the road. In a month or so it will be teeming with new plant and animal life, but for now there’s not much to show, save for the sere cattail heads and broken clones of rush grass that poke only an inch or so above the water.

I imagine even now that the water can’t be more than 40 degrees, and any egg or seed must assuredly wait for favorable conditions. Still, not all is dormant, for the rush grass is now tinged with a deep green, a line no more than 1/8 inch at the base of each clone, with the predominance of dry brown grass sticking up beyond. The cattails too have green at their base, where new growth and photosynthesis are beginning.

April 8

Early asparagus is nearly ready, and it is evident from the prices in the store how much it has come into season. Just a few weeks ago, a bunch of asparagus cost four times what it does today. Such will be the case with strawberries soon.

It’s a strange looking plant, and I remember we had one growing wild in the middle of the backyard when we first bought the house. That first spring I looked out the back porch window and remember seeing the oddest growing thing in the yard – it had the shape of a miniature hemlock tree, all lime green with filamentous branches of tiny endings. I recall it being a couple of feet tall at that point, and it was past the immature stage when the shoots are tender for eating.

Asparagus grows best in sandy soils and should ideally be picked before the main shoot bolts The sandy texture often comes through with store bought plants, because no matter how well you was them, it’s nearly impossible to remove all the sand. This is why so often the asparagus will have the gritty feel.

April 7

Fred claims to have seen a swallow today flying behind their side barn and circling the fields. We privately joked whether this day should be henceforth marked as the return of the swallow to Paxton, as they say in Capistrano.

They are agile fliers and are not shy about swooping in and among us during the summer when we walk the farm two-track that bisects the field passing near their boxes.

April 6

In most years, April is the month in which torrent rains wash the roadways and bring small rivers of effluvial sand and debris down the road. At the end of our driveway, the asphalt is depressed enough that a little backwater of silt invariably collects, leaving a sizable sandbar long after the rains have gone.

The town normally schedules sweeping to occur in late April or early May, and it is our own mechanical rite of passage to hear the big street sweeper coming by the house.

This is an odd year though, and I worry of other consequences in the decisions that the town as supposedly made. There is no sand on the roads this spring, for Paxton elected to forgo using it to treat the snowy roads, instead resorting to frequent application of salt.

The salt, of course, helps melt the roads, and it doesn’t accumulate in the way of sand, but it does go somewhere!

April 5

After a period of no activity, apart from those already on their way, out of nowhere a butter-n-eggs seed germinated, 24 days after I planted it. Admittedly, I had high hopes that these seeds were viable, since I collected them last October from a smallish specimen at a trailhead up island on Martha’s Vineyard. I am particularly fond of this snapdragon-looking flower, and I’d like to transplant it if the warmth comes to stay. I envision a hillside full of butter-n-eggs, giving the late summer day a golden and green patchwork, which moves in the wind.

There is such a field here near Paxton, though it is Lupines that cover it in full around mid June. Just down the Holden road, a mile or so after Grove, the road descends sharply and curves toward the reservoir below. On a hill that is the frontage of an old white farmhouse, spread out over perhaps ½ an acre, are wild lupines. When they come to flower in late June, the land is awash in pale to dark purples, set against the greenery and the summer sky above.

April 4

Throughout the years, we’ve grown familiar with the seasonal patterns of our dooryard bird population. We have a general sense when birds will arrive and when they will depart; some, by virtue of their markings or behavior, we’ve come to know over multiple years like seasonal tenants.     

Every once in a while we are surprised, and today there was a new bird underneath the feeder looking through the cast off sunflower seeds for bits and pieces of detritus. Our bird book indicated it as a fox sparrow, and its markings and behaviors seemed just right.

It searched for food much as does the eastern towhee, kicking its two spindly legs backwards rapidly in what looks like a square dance move, hop back, hop back, search, search. It would repeat this over and again.

The other finches and sparrows didn’t seem to pay it much attention, though I do wonder if they marveled or were in aghast of its feeding behavior.