A botanist assured me once that even here in New England, some flower is in bloom in every month of the year. Even in February. As if to prove the point, she pointed to a scraggly bit of chickweed struggling alongside a foundation. Sure enough, there were a few tiny white blossoms.
I have not found anything blooming in my snow-covered lot this February; if my snowdrops are blooming, it’s under twenty inches of snow where I can not appreciate them. But my body assures me that the annual homecoming of spring is near. I wake up earlier as more light comes in the window. The days last longer.
Every year about the middle of the month, the date varies; I tap my maple trees for their rising sap. It’s not time yet, but my supplies are outside the shop waiting for me to sterilize them. As soon as the daytime and nighttime temperatures seem favorable, I’ll take the drill, spiles, buckets, and hose out and tap the trees.
Every day I’ll be boiling sap and testing the sweet product. I think I do it as much to pace the coming of spring as to enjoy the maple syrup.
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