Some of my fondest memories of March take me back a few years to when I was living in the little town of Marathon, about an hour south of Syracuse, in my sweet little apartment on Front Street. Once the weather started warming up, my daily walks along the river turned up something new every day, a hint that spring was, indeed, just around the corner if we could hold on a little longer.
The first was the morning I'd wake up to the sounds of men's voices, the bing, bing, of a hammer on a nail, and metal pails banging around the bed of a truck. I wouldn't even have to open my eyes to know what was going on right outside my window: they were tapping the maple trees. All along the river mighty maple trees stood tall, shading us in the summer, and acting as a wind break in the winter. On that day, the steady drip, drip, drip of the sap would begin it's journey into the pails. Every few days the truck would come around and empty them into a big drum and take it with the others across the river to what we lovingly named "The Sugar Shack." There the sap would be boiled over a roaring fire that was kept burning day and night (the men of the town actually took shifts to make sure the mixture never cooled and the fire was kept going). All over the village the smell of maple syrup was so overpowering that the local diner and restaurants were kept busy each morning with customers who were craving pancakes, waffles, and homemade maple syrup. In a few weeks time, our annual Maple Festival would draw thousands of people from all over the area for a chance to see just how many ways maple syrup could be eaten, from candy and baked goods to roasted meats and veggies. There were hay rides, craft booths, the library book sale, all kinds of food, a Civil War encampment, and generally an all-around fun weekend (needless to say the book sale and the food alone were enough to make me happy). That's my first memory of March in Marathon.
My second memory of March in Marathon was when I would catch that first sight of the pussy willows growing along the river bank. There are those who do not think very highly of pussy willows because they are not indicative of the showy, colorful flowers of spring like daffodils or crocuses. To me they are the first sign that the rest of the spring plantings will be poking their heads through the dirt very soon. I used to cut the branches I could reach without falling in the river and make an arrangement on the bookcase in my writing room so that I could enjoy them every day and as a reminder that, when Mother Nature decided to hit us with just one more snowfall (after all, it is March in upstate New York for heaven's sake), I could look at them and be reminded of what was surely to come soon.
My last memory of March in Marathon also took me along the river. It was the return of the wild life. The geese would swarm in every morning and push the ducks out of the way, the otters would be scampering along the banks, and the beavers would be busily repairing and rebuilding their homes for the sure-to-come spring rains and the rest of the snow melt from up north that would raise the water levels of the river. Just to watch them at work, each one with his own special job to do, working together like a well trained team, was enough to remind me that the animal world certainly has plenty to teach us mere humans about how to get things done.
It's been quite a while since I walked the river in Marathon or woke to the sound of the pails being hung on the maple trees. I'd lying if I said that I didn't still miss it terribly, but I know that if I want to bring back those sweet memories of March in a small town, all I have to do is find some pussy willows and put them in a vase on the table where I can remember the promises they bring every March even if there are still a few more snowflakes out there before spring can finally arrive.
And so it is.
