Rosemary and Walt Brasch March 16, 2003

It's an expanse of brown ugly land partially covered by snow and ice, ravaged by the uncaring dictator we humanize into Old Man Winter. But it's our back yard, filled with our history and lifestyle, and we love it no matter what.

Our little piece of earth is long accustomed to the cruelty of Winter, but in this seemingly endless season of little heat and sunshine, the azaleas, hydrangea, and Spiraea look hopeless; most of the other plants and trees are in deplorable condition. Only a few hearty showpiece holly bushes remain sturdy and strong. But all show scars and damage from surviving the harshness of snow and sleet.

We don't see squirrels or rabbits or birds any more. No spiders, earthworms, or bumble bees. Some with more resources have taken flight. A few survive the Winter by hibernating. And a few now and then leave their tracks in the snow, scampering across the terrain with a fear that this may not be over, worried they may not have enough food, that it will get even colder and they won't survive, realizing that the tyrannical Winter which dictates their future may kill them before help comes. They also know that if the help is overpowering, if Spring surges straight into the scorching heat and possible drought of summer, many won't survive that either.

There are bulbs tucked beneath that ugliness that may again become a richness of greens; roots and stems wait to grow full- sized, their beautiful flowers adding richness and color to our lives.

Beneath our lawn runs the root system of a beautiful native maple, a tree which has been a part of that land since before our parents were born. If we don't destroy it, it will remain for our children's children, so we must be patient and respectful of its right to exist.

Poised on the outer rim of our yard are weapons which can either plow under our flowers, plants, and trees, unmindful of their dormant but vital life, or help them regain the glory of an impending Spring. The rototiller and the plow, the rakes, shovels, and chemicals are all at the ready. Impatient with the persecution of Winter, we could recruit the construction industry's backhoes and bobcats to remove the snow, then mobilize several 175,000 BTU Reddy-Heaters to melt what's left. We would get rid of the snow; but the Winter may remain.

No matter how careful we would be, we would also destroy the soil, the sticks and stems that look dead but are merely just surviving until the Spring. Even the wild flowers at the edge of our fence would become victims to a sudden avalanche of old snow being pushed and thrown out of our yard and onto other yards. In our rush to overpower one problem, we would destroy innumerable places where animals live and flourish. It would require a lot of money and years of patience to restore our yard to what it once was. So in our yard, our tools are implements of nurturing; the hands which will ply them are hands that love and respect all life.

It's tempting to enclose everything in a greenhouse, and force the plants to bloom year round for our enjoyment. We could provide artificial heat, stifling the threat of Winter's ravenous cold. The flowers and plants would bloom to meet our needs. But lost would be the squirrels, wrens, butterflies--even the pesky aphids. And we would have no majestic trees for shade in the summer, wind protection in the Winter.

Despite the calendar date, the need to oust Old Man Winter-- even when the humans and the flowers are ready for the change-- never comes at the expense of our little acre, and its potential beauty. Never does Spring use a fiery blast to remove Old Man Winter and his despotic rule; there is no deadline issued for him to leave--or else. We know that Spring will gradually arrive.

There will be false signs and early robins to trick us. But Spring, with a strength born of respect for the life of plants and animals, works slowly and methodically to eliminate Old Man Winter's wrath. It has no need to destroy the yard and its inhabitants in its effort to displace the frigid scourge. So we will slowly sort out the unwanted; we will carefully pluck the bad--weed by weed.

Old Man Winter is weakening--there are signs of that in the tiny buds on the trees and on the emerging green shoots of the forsythia.

We are but the caretakers for our yard. Just as there was Winter, so will there be Spring as long as we don't destroy the land and the love that grows and nurtures it in all seasons.