In the mid 1950's, the naturalist Edwin Way Teal wrote "The seasons, like the greater tides, ebb and flow across the continents. Spring advances up the United States at the average rate of about fifteen miles a day." So, late in February, Teal and his wife loaded up their Buick Roadmaster, drove from Long Island to Everglades City, Florida and commenced a 17,ooo mile drive north, zig-zagging across the continent and keeping pace with Spring until they hit the Canadian timberline. This odyssey produced a delightful book, North With the Spring and lay the foundations for a companion piece Autumn Across America. Back in pre-Interstate Highway days, a trip the breadth of North America was practically Homeric in its scope and execution.
Some of us, me included, while admiring the Teals in their adventures, prefer just to sit at home, a barnacle on a rock, and let Spring wash over us. For one thing, driving, even 17,000 miles to experience Spring still gives, at best, a series of snapshots. Sitting still lets you watch the whole movie from opening credits of skunk cabbage melting its way through the snow in February to goldfinches fledging their young in June for the fade out.
For one thing, once the leading edge of Spring creeps past you at fifteen miles a day, it's still Spring. And will be until the heat and humidity of Summer set in, usually way before the official calendar date. For another, Spring is probably the only season with nuance. There is early Spring, frequently confused with late Winter, mid-Spring, and late Spring where it blends into Summer, and innumerable shades of Spring within each piece. In the 1940's Edwin Halle wrote in Spring in Washington:"Our summers are tropical, our winter are arctic but our Spring and Fall are like nothing else on the planet."
Since Winter has decided to put in a farewell encore with night temperatures below freezing, Spring is temporarily on hold right now. This give me the chance to catch up on some items that otherwise would have passed by in the rush.
Two weeks ago, Spring was American toads in full trill, sounding like a fleet alien spacecraft on final approach. One toad sounds plaintive, but a whole marsh full of singers can be heard from a mile away, rising on the scale until you half expect the lenses in your eyeglasses to shatter. I always think of Ella Fitzgerald in the Memorex commercial bursting a champagne flute with her voice. The toads are drawn from the surrounding acres of woods to the marsh, the males singing and jousting for their ladies. A male will find a good place to trill his love song, and as soon as he hits the climax, like Pavarotti hitting the final high C in Nessun Dorma, another male will push him out of the spot and pretend his was the voice that drew the ladies. Tussles ensue. A pair of snapping turtles, the size of garbage can lids roam through the singers snapping them up like Godzilla rampaging through Tokyo. The toads in the direct paths of these behemoths leap out of the way. The rest just keep singing.
Some of us, me included, while admiring the Teals in their adventures, prefer just to sit at home, a barnacle on a rock, and let Spring wash over us. For one thing, driving, even 17,000 miles to experience Spring still gives, at best, a series of snapshots. Sitting still lets you watch the whole movie from opening credits of skunk cabbage melting its way through the snow in February to goldfinches fledging their young in June for the fade out.
For one thing, once the leading edge of Spring creeps past you at fifteen miles a day, it's still Spring. And will be until the heat and humidity of Summer set in, usually way before the official calendar date. For another, Spring is probably the only season with nuance. There is early Spring, frequently confused with late Winter, mid-Spring, and late Spring where it blends into Summer, and innumerable shades of Spring within each piece. In the 1940's Edwin Halle wrote in Spring in Washington:"Our summers are tropical, our winter are arctic but our Spring and Fall are like nothing else on the planet."
Since Winter has decided to put in a farewell encore with night temperatures below freezing, Spring is temporarily on hold right now. This give me the chance to catch up on some items that otherwise would have passed by in the rush.
Two weeks ago, Spring was American toads in full trill, sounding like a fleet alien spacecraft on final approach. One toad sounds plaintive, but a whole marsh full of singers can be heard from a mile away, rising on the scale until you half expect the lenses in your eyeglasses to shatter. I always think of Ella Fitzgerald in the Memorex commercial bursting a champagne flute with her voice. The toads are drawn from the surrounding acres of woods to the marsh, the males singing and jousting for their ladies. A male will find a good place to trill his love song, and as soon as he hits the climax, like Pavarotti hitting the final high C in Nessun Dorma, another male will push him out of the spot and pretend his was the voice that drew the ladies. Tussles ensue. A pair of snapping turtles, the size of garbage can lids roam through the singers snapping them up like Godzilla rampaging through Tokyo. The toads in the direct paths of these behemoths leap out of the way. The rest just keep singing.
A week later, the marsh is silent save of the honking and hissing of nesting geese and the gabbling of ducks. Toad spawn lies across the surface and toad tadpoles sport in the shallows like herds of miniature hippos.
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