Spring is serviceberry

Spring comes slowly here in the Catskills. You could say it creeps. The land is alive with energy, but the profile is low. We’re too high in altitude for a showcase of many of the dogwoods and ornamental cherries that are already in bloom to the south of us. Even without the fanfare, it is exciting to feel and see spring coming on.

The animals, for one, are everywhere. Eastern bluebirds were the first harbingers of spring, about a month ago. By now they’ve paired off and staked out their nest territories, but not before they attacked their own reflections in our windows for several weeks, and pooped all over our deck rail. The barn and tree swallows—my favorite birds here--showed themselves for the first time two weeks ago on a Monday. Diana, a friend who had stopped by that day, jumped and clicked her heels when she saw one, and explained the ritual: “It’s a mandatory jump for joy when you see your first swallow in the spring!” I did not know until Diana told me, so I leapt up and clicked my heels with her.

Another day, out with my dog at 6:30 in the morning, we startled a young bobcat. She was prowling in the meadow down below us, froze motionless in the tangled grass when she saw us, as did I in response, then eagerly loped away and bounded over a stone wall.

Two mornings later, as I looked out a window to the east, I noticed a chubby animal 40 feet up in the elm tree. At first I thought it must be a bear cub, but it was way too small. Slowly and deliberately, it pulled buds to its mouth like a koala. Is it a porcupine, I wondered? They are tree creatures. No. Is it a raccoon without stripes? (Like the skunk without a stripe that I saw two summers ago.) No. When I looked at it through binoculars, I realized it was a large groundhog! While I was watching, it backed slowly down one of the tree’s limbs and climbed high on another, continuing its graze of buds. I’ve seen a lot of groundhogs in my life, but never one high in a tree.

The lilacs, old and gnarled across the street behind the dilapidated farmhouse, are in bud. They don’t look like much, but will be glorious soon. The forsythia, banding like pure sunshine on the patchy landscape, are nearly finished with their early explosion of color.

And now the serviceberry trees have just bloomed. They have other names, but serviceberry is my favorite. I’m told that because they are the first blooming tree—usually by mid-April—farmers of old knew that the ground was finally warm enough to dig proper graves for those who died over the winter.

Not very tall, about 25 feet at best, the tree is also known as shadbush or juneberry. Juneberry because this tree fruits by the month of June, with small berries resembling wild blueberries. Shadbush because the fish known as shad are generally running at the time of this tree’s bloom. And the Lenape tribe—which would have been near or in this area—used the fish and the berries as part of their spring sustenance. There’s even a children’s book called When the Shadbush Blooms, that describes the Lenape’s history.

Last year I managed to collect a few juneberries to taste for the first time before they were devoured by birds. If there’s enough this year, I’ll try making a pie with them.

I’ll plant a few more at some point, not just for berries for us and the birds, but because to me the serviceberry tree’s humble petals mean the real start of spring.

And remind me of this poem, called Spring by Linda Pastan.

Just as we lose hope
she ambles in,
a late guest
dragging her hem
of wildflowers,
her torn
veil of mist,
of light rain,
blowing
her dandelion
breath
in our ears;
and we forgive her,
turning from
chilly winter
ways,
we throw off
our faithful
sweaters
and open
our arms.