The Hancock-Henderson Quill, Inc.
As winter melts away, our senses seem to come to life. We let out a collective sigh of survival that winter is finally over. Spring is the ultimate season of senses. Every sense is stirred and awakened by the long awaited arrival of spring.
We see the spring on the horizon every morning with a new sunrise arriving earlier and earlier. Michael doesn’t even need to turn the tractor lights on as he backs the manure spreader up to the barn for morning cleaning. The bright rays of the morning sun bursting through foggy mornings seem to make the day more hopeful and promising. I haven’t seen a robin bouncing around the yard yet, but that may be because he doesn’t have webbed feet. The only birds that would like to visit our yard are ducks and geese. I don’t think our farm dog would like that. She barely tolerates the squirrels that dare to live in the old oak trees surrounding our house.
Even though the robins are not hopping around snow piles looking for worms, I still hear the spring chatter of birds congregating in the tops of bare trees. They are like fanfare trumpeters announcing the approaching arrival of royalty. The Blue Herons provide the beat. The Canada geese sing bass. The mallard ducks are tenor while the sparrows fill in the alto and soprano parts. The oriels’ sweet song is the spring soloist. We are listening for the arrival of the purple martin scouts to call in their flock for nesting in the houses that surround our garden. Their chatter will keep me company this summer as I work in the garden.
The sense of touch is very sensitive in the spring. This is when you discover that your workboots are one hole away from becoming farmer sandals. When the snow and ice were in solid form, little did I realize that my boots were becoming air conditioned. I just thought my feet were cold because it was still cold outside. I suddenly discover hidden cracks at the toe line of my boot with my first slip into a slushy pond. My foot plunges into an icy soggy existence. My socks are wet around my big toe. Dry socks feel so good when I come in from morning chores.
Of course the best part about spring senses is the taste of spring. Fresh asparagus in cream sauce on toast is a meal in itself. The first batch of rhubarb crisp with ice cream melting down the sides makes any meal a memorable feast. If the rhubarb is ready, then morel mushrooms are starting to pop through their hidden places in the woods. Morel mushrooms dredged in soda crackers and fried in butter are savored as the pinnacle of spring tastes. Then you start to count down the days until you can eat the first garden harvest of radishes, peas and lettuce.
The most valuable sense on the farm is the sense of smell. It is one we use year round, but nothing smells quite like spring. It is so fresh, new and unique that fabric softeners have “bottled” it. You throw open the sash like it was the night before Christmas to air out the house. The clothes line is laden down with woolen blankets freshening up before being stored away for next winter’s cold nights.
City people may wrinkle up their noses at the “spring farm smells” but I love it. However not all smells on the farm as so wonderful. There are distinctive orders that signal trouble in the barn. The hearing in my right ear may be gone, but my nose is sharp at picking up certain orders. There is a distinctive difference between udder rot and uterine infections. Close, but different. Then there is the “sweet” smell of ketosis that lingers in the feed alley as I maneuver the feed cart past their noses.
Despite this “gift”, I had trouble determining a smell on St. Patrick’s Day. A while back I made sausage and sauerkraut for Mark. I put the extra kraut back in the frig for another time. The next time was for St. Patrick’s Day Rueben sandwiches. I was in a dilemma. How long had the jar of sauerkraut been in the refrigerator? How do you know when sauerkraut has gone bad by smelling the jar? Can it taste off? When in doubt, use just a little and pitch the rest. The Rueben loaf was a hit.
Physicians will tell you there are only 5 senses, but I beg to differ. On the farm there is definitely a sixth sense for spring. It is called a sense of panic. The rise in your heartbeat as the tractor starts to slip in the fields and the spreader starts to sink when you suddenly discover the frost has disappeared. The helpless feeling of watching the spring thaw rush through swollen creeks as it creeps closer to the buildings. The anxious feeling of being in the fields too late for planting.
The sixth sense is probably the hardest to deal handle with but all we have to do is just stop and breathe deeply. Remember, everything will work out. It always does. So, enjoy the other senses of spring as we awaken to a new season of hope and promise.
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As their 4 children pursue dairy careers off the farm, Natalie and Mark are starting a new adventure of milking registered Holsteins just because they like good cows on their Minnesota farm. (Natalie grew up in Stronghurst, the daughter of Becky and the late Larry Dowell.)
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