Springtime in Llano…and Rye

Author’s Note: This issue takes its cue from Southland in the Springtime by the Indigo Girls—a song about roads, seasons, and the feeling of moving through a place where memory, work, and landscape meet in the light. Listen to the song, and others like it, in a new section of the Buzz you’ll find below: The Smoke Signals Playlist.

Here’s a painful perception of the obvious: Spring arrives differently in Llano, Texas, than it does in Rye, New Hampshire. 

In Llano, Spring enters on warm winds. One day can be a motionless 100 degrees, the next a blustery 55. Light stretches  across limestone, and pit doors open well before breakfast. Down the road, Enchanted Rock - a massive pink granite dome - is steeped in legend stemming from Tonkawa, Apache, and Comanche folklore. Natives believed it was haunted by spirits, with tales of sacrificial fires, ghost warriors, and an invisible princess. Eerie groaning sounds at night, caused by the granite cooling, were feared as supernatural activity. You can smell oak in the air before you see it. For a brilliant moment, the bluebonnets resemble an ancient sea.

In Rye, spring arrives in visible phases. Snowbanks melt first. We see the snowdrop blooms fighting their way to the sun through the remainders of last fall’s leaf drop. Then the ground loosens, and suddenly one morning the air changes—not warm exactly, but something akin to possible. The tarp comes off the  grill, and we replace the snow shovel with a rake by the back door. Bikes are rolled into the driveway to be aired up. The first geese are louder than when they left last fall. And the peepers in the evening - they seem to be saying, “Hey, you! People are coming outside!” 

For Llano and Rye alike, spring has always meant returning to motion. I think you notice it in your hands first. They want to do something again. Split wood, stack wood. Turn soil. Carry boards. Sweep out the carport. Ride a bike. Open the boat. Run farther than yesterday. Ride a motorcycle.  Inhale.  Spring asks us all to reawaken. And (as is noted most frequently when speaking about bears), with awakening comes appetite.

For some reason, food smells, tastes, and functions differently in April.  It requires the kind of eating that happens before the next thing starts, and fuels increased activity. Before work, practice, and yard work.

I feel like I see it all at once. The contractors up early on job sites. A fellow runner on the  shoulder of Route 1-A. Someone assessing a raised bed and its promise for summer flowers. It moves through neighborhoods in small ways with screen doors tested, bikes rolling, and conversations lasting a little longer at the edge of the driveway. Food follows that rhythm. It’s not rushed or ceremonial, just ready when people are ready.

Spring isn’t loud like Summer or the Holidays. It’s a quiet thing. And I think that’s why Spring is the season barbecue understands best. For Llano and for Rye, spring carries the same promise for everyone: there is work ahead, and there is company for it. And nearby, something is always on the pit or the stove. This is the season when smoke lingers, light stays longer, and what can often be the veil of a lonely winter lifts and reveals the beckoning of the taste of time that will soon be well spent.