Today, as I threw open the curtains, I told the kids, “It’s May! Spring has sprung!” Sun streamed in through the window, and as I gazed across the prairie, I saw that it was true: A brilliant green mist gleamed amid the bent stems of last year’s grasses. Even the buds on trees beside the house were suddenly bursting open, revealing the tiny points of new leaves and the beginnings of blossoms.
The beginning of May isn’t always spring-like in these parts. In fact, my last album is called “South Dakota, First of May,” and the lyrics of the title track describe the first May Day I spent in western Dakota. Imagine my surprise that fateful day, waking up to find it had snowed in the night, leaving a dusting of white on the dead grass, a sky as gray as a stormy sea and winds roaring so loudly even the birds didn’t dare sing.
“It sounds like oceans overhead, and it is only almost spring,” I wrote in my journal, and that eventually became the song’s refrain.
During the intervening decade, cold, wind and snow have been in the May Day forecast so frequently I began to worry I’d cursed the day by memorializing it in song.
“I should never have written those lyrics,” I told my husband four years ago, as we watched sleet turn to snow then back to sleet across the pasture.
Well, I am happy to report the curse seems to be broken, at least for now. For the last three years, May has arrived with warmth, and even more delightfully, rain instead of snow.
Among other things, this has made lambing a breeze. What a luxury to lamb in fine weather — it almost feels like cheating fate to not have the elements to contend with! I mean, is that even allowed? Today, walking out across the pasture to check on the flock, I found mamas and babies grazing peacefully, everyone looking so relaxed with a whole field of tasty treats and nothing to do but eat, that I, too, felt at ease.
The next chore of the morning was a pass by the coop to drop off some kitchen scraps for the chickens. The chickens were already happily hunting and pecking beside the barn. Not a single one gave me a glance when I approached. My castoff vegetable peels and apple cores, a treasure in colder months, are no longer of interest now that there were BUGS and GRASS and the splendor of sun to enjoy.
My next chore is usually carrying out the trays of seedlings I bring inside at dusk so they don’t get chilled. Last night was predicted to be so warm I didn’t bother, and I swear the seedlings smiled at me as I passed the trays on my way across the yard, their thin stems gently bobbing in the breeze. It must have felt magical for them to be greeted by the gentle wash of first light — something they’ve never experienced before — a rite of passage preparing them for their transition out of tiny pots and into the garden.
Back at the corral, I ran into the man of the ranch. “You’ll never guess who was waiting for me this morning,” he said with a chuckle. Last week, he had been trying to graft a calf to a heifer who’d lost her baby. Neither was very excited about the other, though.
The calf’s real mother was still alive, just alarmingly neglectful. “But she was looking for him this morning and was very happy to see him. He was happy to see her, too,” my husband said.
“Who knew,” I replied, “that even the attitudes of naughty mama cows can be improved by the finery of spring on the prairie.”
Of course, all this could change by next week (or tomorrow). It could snow again, or we might have triple-digit temps in the shade. But my goodness, I feel spoiled today, when all is well, all is well, all is well. Welcome to May, everyone!
