Spring By Any Other Name

Did you ever wonder why we call this upcoming season Spring? Or why we call Autumn, Fall? That thought never bothered to wiggle a single gray cell hidden under my skull until just the other day. The name summer gives no hint as to what weather phenomena we might expect and neither does Winter. Well maybe if we go back to Latin or Greek, but I’m not capable of going either place.

It might be because I am much older now and time is such a precious gift that this particular dark, dreary winter has worn me out. I think I had just about given up what with the very short days, rain it seemed like every other day, and the Wildcats determined to give me heartburn and a nervous breakdown twice a week. And then something special happened right in my very own front yard.

As I was driving in from a trip to Wooly World—yes, I do know it is Wally, not wooly, but wooly is what a long shopping trek feels like when one has overbought, over spent and paddled around in the rain looking for the car while getting wetter by the second. Back to driving up the hill to the garage and there it was. Spring! I kid you not right there in my own front yard at the foot of the birch tree there were three daffodils in full bloom. It was as if they had just sprung out of the ground while I was across town. I suppose I am not the first person who was jolted awake by flowers springing out of the ground—too early but oh so welcome. Flowers Spring forth and in Autumn, leaves Fall from the trees. I guess that naming didn’t really tax anyone’s brain power, but they just gave up when it came to summer and winter.

Truly, I don’t think there is a sweeter sight than clusters of daffodils blowing in the March wind. When I was a little kid mother pointed out that it was fun to look for bunches of daffodils that someone planted years ago and then for whatever reason left them. They grew and spread and are there even yet telling all who will notice that the winter is just about ready to give up. Old barns, abandoned house sites, a well house, fence rows that used to enclose farmhouses---all these and more are places where you can see signs of a yester year when someone who loved the hope of Spring planted them. Little did they know that they were giving several generations of folks the same hope she had when she dropped those little brown bulbs in the ground.

I look every Spring for these gifts from yesterday. It almost seems to be an obligation for us to see and enjoy their blooming. It feels like we are sharing with the planter what she was thinking so many years ago. It is a comforting thought that there actually are ways we can reach into the future and leave something precious for others to enjoy. You might look yourself the next time you are driving in the country for the sweet hello’s left for you all those years ago. When I find them the stories behind those blooms always make me ponder. I plan to plant more of them this fall for tomorrow’s Springs.