These Times

Trilliums in bloom and frogs in full croak

Kirk Ericson | Mar 21, 20240

Our spring, our vernal equinox, arrived Tuesday at 8:06 p.m.

“Vernal” means “of or relating to spring.” “Equinox” means “the time when the sun crosses the plane of earth’s equator, making night and day of approximately equal length all over the earth.” So says Merriam-Webster.

“Oh, the storm and its fury broke today

Crushing hopes that we cherish so dear

Clouds and storms will in time pass away

The sun again will shine bright and clear.” So sings the Carter Family.

The precise time, in these parts, of spring’s arrival is the moment when our sun’s position crosses the celestial equator, which is the imagined line in our sky directly above our equator.

Spring. Right on time, again.

I went to the bowl-shaped park down the street from our home to attend spring’s beginning. The frogs were croaking in the mire, longing for some friction, while the moonlight illuminated the elegant white petals of trillium, which rise like raised fists against its enemy, the evil English ivy.

Heyo, spring. It’s a joy to see you again. It’s been forever since we last met.

Our winter seemed long, but it wasn’t. Time alone doesn’t measure the full length of the passage of time. Our winter was normal when it came to precipitation, but it was abnormal when it came to temperature, according to the National Weather Service in Seattle. The average temperature in Olympia for December through February was 43.3 degrees, 3.6 degrees warmer than usual.

“That makes this winter the second warmest ‘meteorological winter’ on record, just behind 1957-58,” Trent Davis, lead forecaster for the National Weather Service, wrote in an email.

Still, this winter seemed longer. Maybe as we age, the dark grows longer than the light.

Last week, a current was in the air as people anticipated Saturday, the day forecast to be our first 70-degree day of the year. Outdoor plans were laid. One or two layers of clothing would be shed. Curtains would be thrown open, car windows would be lowered. Outside chores would be put off for another day.

Last weekend, we left our winter lairs. It felt right to squint again.

We saw sundresses and shorts, and exposed arms. We saw our ground needed tending.

We could spot the pregnant women in the neighborhood. In winter, we’re draped in so many layers of fabric it’s hard to keep track of such developments.

People out for a stroll didn’t have that winter hunch — shoulders caved forward, a tilt at the hips — that many of us adopt to meet winter’s bitterness. Last weekend, we were standing straight, walking straight, maybe so we could expose as much of our body as possible to the sun.

When we walked out the door, we didn’t have to brace our minds and bodies against the cold. The inside temperature matched the outside temperature.

We swung our arms as we strode, shaking the chill from our extremities.

We stopped and talked in the sun that Saturday. We weren’t rushed to return inside.

With the sun in on our face, we feel less like a grub that’s lived under a rock for five months.

Knit hats were replaced by caps. Sunglasses reappeared.

Maybe we took a moment to look inside a blossoming cherry blossom. How does nature orchestrate that?

The frogs are out and loud. They’re probably proud, too.

It was time for us to inflate our sports balls, bicycle tires and our chests.

Many of us took our sandals out for a walk.

Thank you, spring.