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Springtime is the best drug

Sun poking into the house earlier and earlier each morning, peering in and blinding the late wakers of the house.
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Sun poking into the house earlier and earlier each morning, peering in and blinding the late wakers of the house.

The dripping of ice on the eves of the roof becoming a steady chorus of delight while the mountain chickadee calls his "cheeeeseburger" song announcing spring is here.

I noticed the pussy willows last week began opening their swollen buds to reveal their intent of reproduction and growth for the new season.

Our greenhouse will now be planted this week with our lettuce starts and spinach with the anticipation of steady warming temperatures up to spring.

This time of year is my favourite drug. The euphoric feelings can only be understood by avid gardeners, farmers and fishers, though I am sure most citizens of the north can agree spring is a very pleasing time after a dark, cold winter.

Spring lambs this year were born (and are still being born) on the farm during this past week's -27 Celsius windchill temperatures.

All the while, wolves have been on constant watch atop our hill behind the farm calling out each night. Our Maremma dog standing guard, barking and howling back, running toward the forest and then back to the barn to check on the new little crying lambs.

What a way to enter the world during such a harsh, unforgiving last punch from old man winter. Thoughts of Stravinsky's rite of spring run through my head with its harsh entrance into the spring, depicting death on the eve of life.

Waking every two hours during the night for the first days of lambing to ensure the newborns survived the temperatures invoked great gratitude and admiration for these animals producing their young in a wet, amniotic sack during such cold temperatures.

Though I know the sheep and lambs are much more hardy than our subtropical bodies, I kept thinking I should bring them all in to warm by the fire as my lazy, shorthaired house dog (which goes on EI during winter due to his short coat) lies as close as possible to the wood stove without singing hair.

The clockwork that is the seasons we enjoy is a pleasant ticking to the future. The optimistic sheep bear their young traditionally in early harsh conditions in anticipation of warmer temperatures that have come for millennia each spring.

The hardy gardeners plant their tomatoes from seed, which they saved from the previous summer, during some of the coldest of winter temperatures in anticipation of the greening of fields and the return of robins.

Hold your glasses high, Prince George.

Spring is here.