We're in the seam, the cloth of the year where the seasons are stitched together: ice on the stones in the morning and coltsfoot opening by noon; robins spearing worms in the grass, and juncos as yet with no immediate intention of heading for the Arctic Circle.
Mountain streams run strong in April. The cold, clean water just right for native brook trout. We are blessed with a few such streams in Upper Turkeyfoot, sought out by purest anglers who's biggest thrill is to drop a hand-tied fly onto a small, clear pool and watch the slender brookie rise with intent.
In the woods, heart-shaped leaves of violets are greening the path, and I find myself looking for the first rolled spears of ramps, the wild leeks of the Appalachians, pushing up through the leafmat (none yet, shown above on 4/11/09).
Some towns stage ramp festivals. Decades ago, one enterprising newspaper editor in West Virginia made himself famous with the U.S. Postal Service by have a chemist friend concoct an ink additive that mimicked the smell, and printed his paper with it.
His idea was that the odor, offensive to some, would be a nostalgic reminder for readers who had left the mountains to seek their fortune. It was, but it also touched off a paroxysm of indignation in reeking mailrooms all over the country. The editor, to keep his mailing priviledges, was forced to sign a legal document promising not to do that again. "We are the only newspaper in the free world legally obligated not to stink," he liked to say.
So, I don't mind the 30-degree rain. I'm thinking of ramps, an acquired taste, perhaps. But I've acquired it, and it won't be long.
copyright 2010, J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
