JOHN PEPIN

“All around the world tonight, what a beautiful scene below,” – Gordon Lightfoot

The afternoon was the lazy sort, dragging along from task to task, with the sun seemingly in the same mood.

Through those gray-skied hours, its face poked through the clouds briefly and then retreated – like some passerby who opened the refrigerator door for a few seconds to see if something appealed to them.

Doddering, like a bumblebee moving slowly from flower to flower. Perhaps the sun was still in its pajamas, late to wake, with a pillowcase full of bedhead, its mouth yawning open looking for two scoops of Raisin Bran.

But not everything was slow to react.

Despite the relative absence of sunshine, the snow that remained on the ground was being converted to springtime meltwater at a pronounced rate, thanks to the warm temperature of the day and what sunshine there was.

Beyond that, it was the wind that was driving most of the snow removal. Gusting winds of considerable strength had grown out of the west, working to toss and move now loose and dried road salt and sand from roadways.

The sands swirled and moved like curtains across highways and country roads. The winds also worked to spur evaporation, helping to further reduce the amount of snow left on the ground.

The now very old, tired and withered Wintermaker sat on the crest of a ridge looking down on the scene, like the Grinch on Mount Crumpet.

“I must stop springtime from coming, but how?”

Meanwhile, the birds must have been tired too. More arrived today after long flights over oceans, rivers, mountains and cities, finding their way back here from the south to set up nesting territories and eventually raise their broods.

Their flights arrive like clockwork, set in motion by the increasing amount of daylight and hormonal changes. Each day, old familiar friends from years past appear on our lawns or at birdfeeders, in our skies overhead, on scantly available open waters or in the trees and bushes around us.

Over the past couple of days, I have seen an eastern phoebe in my backyard and a yellow-bellied sapsucker at one of the suet feeders. I’ve read email posts about a much wider variety of birds – from sandhill cranes and blue-winged teal to tree swallows and turkey vultures – arriving at points all over this wondrous peninsula.

There was water dripping off the rooflines, verifiable mud puddles alongside the roadways and potholes all over the place, with new ones popping up every day.

I am feeling torn, as I often am, with the changing of one season to another. That succession for me is in some ways like some of the relationships we encounter in life, saying good-bye to one person or thing, saying hello to new horizons.

Like lots of folks, I often hope for bluer skies, greener pastures, better and brighter days in the future. But at the same time, I am hesitant to let go of the good times and the familiar sights and sounds that have been all around for a good long time now.

Many people fear change and fight against it as much as they can. I am not somebody who fears changes. I am all about moving forward.

However, I have lived long enough to know that change does not necessarily mean better, brighter or happier. There are countless things that I have encountered in my lifetime that have changed, but not for the better.

Some simple examples would include the shrinking size of candy bars accompanied by the increasing price, the discontinuation of Campbell’s in making its condensed green pea soup (not the split pea with ham soup) and things like screwdrivers (not the libation) and other tools not being made as well as they used to be or lasting as long.

There are all kinds of phrases that have gone out of fashion too. I am often surprised when terms or phrases I use in conversation are met with questions about what they mean or where they came from.

Someone recently was unfamiliar with London fog being described as “thick as pea soup (again, not the split pea with ham variety).”

It can seem very strange. At the same time, there are many new phrases, abbreviations and acronyms that I am not familiar with that I am told “everybody” uses.

Somehow, the world keeps turning.

As the afternoon wore on, the clouds began to break up and spread, revealing a partially beautiful blue sky. The remaining gray-white clouds floated past, like a procession of salmon slowly moving upstream.

The comparatively warm winds brought a smile to my face, while my disposition remained somewhat muted. I thought about how it won’t be long before we’ll be hearing the crashing of thunder and see flashes of lightning in the skies.

It amazes me how not having heard or seen those things over just a few months can make a person wonder if they ever occurred before. It’s like wintertime puts some kind of a numbing trance over me.

I wonder if the same thing happens with all the forest animals. I know the flowers are put to sleep like the bears. I wonder if we’re supposed to forget things or acquire diminished capacity to remember them amid the winds, cold and snows of wintertime?

Then, perhaps we are better prepared for arrivals of birds and other events in the spring that bring new life and new experiences, like Groundhog Day all over again, again?

For me, the springtime doesn’t truly arrive until the anchor ice shatters and shifts and the rivers and lakes become cleared.

The sounds of water bubbling, tumbling over rocks or rushing through canyons is even more important to springtime for me than seeing or hearing the first robin – and that occurrence is quite near the top of my list.

Another true indicator of spring for me is not the tender daffodil, hyacinth or crocus blooms, but more so the opening of the thousands of miles of forest roads and trails to driving and hiking.

Then there’s brook trout season opening at the last day of the month, spring allergies and with the drying conditions, the spring season of what we used to call “grass fires,” that can occur in many places in the wildlands, not just fields.

Over the past few nights, I’ve heard great horned owls hooting, the saw-whet owl still continuing to sing and I’ve become more closely acquainted with what appears to be a group of at least three flying squirrels frequenting the suet and corn feeders hanging in the maple trees in our front yard.

I have seen the squirrels often from the front window by shining a flashlight on the suet feeders. A few nights ago, I went outside and approached the tree.

As I did, one squirrel shot up the trunk very quickly, with another following quickly behind. From their high vantage point, they turned and looked down at me.

I talked to them, telling them it was okay to come back down. One of the squirrels flew from that height to a neighboring tree. It then moved out to a broken tree branch promontory and looked at me.

As I continued to talk to the squirrel, it flew back to the first tree and slowly came back down to the suet feeder and began to eat. The longer I stood there, the more comfortable the two flying squirrels became.

At one point, one followed the tree trunk down to the ground to get a fallen chunk of suet. It approached me to about three feet away. I was just about to step back when the squirrel went back up the trunk.

I shone the flashlight over to my right to see one of two coil-spring, corn-cob squirrel feeders swinging back and forth in the darkness. I moved over there with my light. I then saw the third flying squirrel on the second corn feeder.

These fascinating creatures are very tiny, compared to other squirrels, especially if you don’t count their tail. I got some video footage of these little friends feeding, but I hope to get some better shots soon.

Maybe even tonight.