Spring has been the official season of Massachusetts for 22 days. Trees are budding. Snowdrops, daffodils, and forsythia have made their debut. Magnolias in sunny corners have begun to dazzle us with their blossoms. The lilac bushes have tiny leaves. Spring fever afflicts us all and no one wants to be cured.
In April the landscape can change dramatically over the course of a warm day or a rainy night. Every morning, I open the bedroom curtains to look outside eager to note the changes from the night before. As Ferris Bueller pointed out, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
Recent weather has been cold and rainy. The Boston Red Sox opened their season at home bundled up in balaclavas while the Fenway faithful wore their winter coats. Yet outside the ballpark, the green carpets of the Emerald Necklace are rolling out for the debut of Mother Nature’s 2025 Spring Collection. Willow trees decked in hazy, yellow cloaks check their reflection in the lagoon at the Public Garden. Red maples fire up their foliage in rivalry with the bricks of Beacon Hill. The chorus of shade trees on Boston City Hall Plaza are unfurling in verdant swaths to block, I mean, soften the Brutalist nightmare that houses our city government. Cue the lights and music, spring is ready to hit the runway.
Imagine my surprise this morning when I opened the bedroom curtains eager to see what Mother Nature had been up to overnight and spied a light carpet of snow on the ground. *Cue record-scratching noise.*
As surprise gave way to resignation, I remembered an April long ago. My father and I planted copious amounts of wildflower seeds in the backyard. The next day snow covered the ground where we had planted our flowerbed. Dad thought it was hilarious. In his opinion, snow is just white rain. As it melts, it waters the flowers and they’ll be even prettier. As he predicted, our wildflower garden eventually bloomed in spectacular fashion. White rain hadn’t been welcome, but it had been helpful.
This morning was proof again of how quickly things can change during a New England spring. In the ensuing hours since I took the above photos, the snow has melted and the grass beneath it, I swear, is a deeper green. The daffodils whose heads hung low have quenched their thirst and are, again, standing proud. And the buds on the once snow-covered branches seem on the verge of opening.
Perhaps my eagerness to observe all and miss nothing lists heavily to poetic license. Yet I feel, despite the frosty start to the day, spring has made progress and winter is truly behind us. Renaming snow to white rain is a psychological step in the right direction. Unlike autumn when we revel in the brightly colored foliage and wistfully recall the warmth of summer, spring holds no nostalgia for winter. Judging by the guys in shorts at the gas pumps, I don’t think there’s a single person up here who is hoping for one last, late snowfall. Is there? Anyone, anyone…
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