My father was born on February 7, 1921. He died on February 13, 2003. A span of 82 years, bookended by dates held by one week: this week. Naturally, February is important to me, containing as it does my father’s circle of life. But beyond marking this week every year, February’s importance has changed over time for me, from the dead of winter—the bleakest point, the “Abandon all hope ye who enter here” month—to the beginning of spring.

For I see spring everywhere this week, even though New England does not yet experience early springs. What has changed? Certainly, the climate has changed, although we are still encased in icy snowbanks this week, but the real change is about me. It’s about where I spend all of my time, what I pay close attention to, what I hear and see. I live in a wild and rural place, spending time out of doors each day in the quiet where bird song is obvious. Bird feeders in our front yard draw a crowd visible through the house’s many windows, permitting close and consistent observation. The overwintering birds are singing and flying about with purpose. Their colors seem brighter already, too: the male cardinals are very red and the male goldfinches more yellow olive than their winter dull olive.

February is the month to prune apple trees here in this northwesterly corner of Massachusetts—a sign of early spring. And there’s yet another sign of early spring: the seed and nursery catalogs are clogging our mailboxes and filling our minds with dreams of the coming gardens.

First comes the dream of the purple and green heads of asparagus poking up through cool soil. Dream upon dream: the perfect red orb of a tomato; long, slender zucchini; golden, thin-skinned potatoes. Dreams and memories of tall black-eyed Susans and purple coneflowers beckoning the bees, butterflies and humming birds, and of milkweeds welcoming the returning Monarchs. In the dream, hollyhocks stand tall and glowing heads of dahlia wave in a ruffling breeze. Nothing is attacked by disease or predator. In the February dream, our gardens grow lush with flowers and the September vines and beds are laden with perfect fruit and vegetables.

All of that gardening hope and disappointment awaits us, very far away from this week in February. We first must pass into March to even think about starting seeds indoors. If April is the cruelest month, March in New England is the most treacherous month, with historical snowstorms and winds to pull the life out of early spring.

Setting aside March for a moment, this week in February nevertheless shows us the promise that spring will come. It will come. For now, we’re taking a tiny break from winter, with milder temperatures and sunshine. We are not winter rookies though. Ice grippers remain attached to our boots and our puffy coats are besmirched by mud and sand from the town’s winter road care. We see February for what it is, we see February as 19th c. botanical artist and poet Rebecca Hey saw it:

“Though Winter still asserts his right to reign,/ He sways his sceptre now with gentler hand;”

Except for the mental sunshine that is St. Valentine’s Day, the return of the hard cold next week, and the nostalgia felt during the presidents’ birthdays, I can’t guess what the rest of February will be like. But as soon as the snow melts enough for an easy walk up the cemetery path, I will venture up that silent little hill. To the tune of the wind in the trees, I will brush the ice off my father’s gravestone and say hello.

East Hawley MA, February 10th, 2020

February

Though Winter still asserts his right to reign,
He sways his sceptre now with gentler hand;
Nay, sometimes softens to a zephyr bland
The hurrying blast, which erst along the plain
Drove the skin-piercing sleet and pelting rain
In headlong rage; while, ever and anon,
He draws aside his veil of vapours dun,
That the bright sun may smile on us again.
To-day ‘twould seem (so soft the west wind’s sigh)
That the mild spirit of the infant Spring
Was brooding o’er the spots where hidden lie
Such early flowers as are the first to fling
On earth’s green lap their wreaths of various dye—
Flowers, round whose forms sweet hopes and sweeter memories cling.

by Rebecca Hey (known as Mrs Hey), 1797-1859, botanical artist, born in Leeds, Great Britain