In Kodiak, the calendar’s proclamation of the first day of spring often fell out of sync with nature’s own timetable. For me, spring announced itself not through the chirping of birds or the blooming of early flowers, but through the soft, persistent sound of running water. Walking home from school along Lower Mill Bay Road, as I turned and meandered down Hemlock Street into Aleutian Homes, the ice-bound silence of winter began to break. Beneath the snow and ice, encrusted with sticks, rocks, and the odd candy wrapper, a subtle symphony of trickling water played—the heralds of warmer days ahead.
Aside from the natural signs, the human world buzzed with its own heralds of spring. Radio jingles and TV commercials burst forth like the first crocuses, urging women to shed their winter layers and prepare their bodies for the sunshine. Advertisements for shaving creams in the “bikini region” nudged at the collective consciousness of the women in town, reminding us of the impending swimsuit season and the societal nudge towards physical perfection after the indulgent, inert winter months.
However, in my house, the truest sign that spring had sprung was not found outside, but in the whirlwind of activity that took over our home—mom’s spring cleaning. It was a phenomenon as unpredictable as the weather. It would begin with my mother’s somewhat casual complaint about the claustrophobia of winter, sometimes accompanied by a nostalgic lament of her sunnier California days, much to my father’s chagrin, who had wooed her from the golden coast to this paradise.
Then, without warning, we would return from school one afternoon to find the house transformed. Throw rugs would be draped over porch rails, shaken and ready for the washing machine after the long winter. The dogs, usually inside snoozing in a comfortable spot, would be tied up outside, looking puzzled but patient. Every window in the house would be flung open, but the screen door would be locked, barricading us out, peering through the screen into the chaos.
“Mom, we are locked out!” we’d call, our voices barely making a dent over the roar of her vacuum cleaner.
Inside, the furniture would be in disarray; kitchen chairs upturned on the tables like strange sculptures, their legs pointing accusingly at the ceiling. The scent of Pinesol and other cleaners wafted out, mingling with the fresh air. The windows, usually speckled with the debris of winter storms, gleamed with a clarity that promised unobstructed views of the new season. The kitchen floor, freshly mopped, shone dangerously slick, warning all who dared enter that the pristine surface was as treacherous as any icy sidewalk we had navigated in the months before.
This annual ritual, marked not by the date but by the undeniable urge to renew and refresh, was my mother’s way of declaring the end of winter’s reign. It was her rebellion against the dark, her dance of defiance against the cold, and her way of preparing us all for the new beginnings that spring promised. As I grew older, this ritual ingrained in me a sense of renewal, a reminder that no matter how long the winter, spring would always follow with its promise of new life and new possibilities.
Today I live in the Scottish Highlands, and this was our first winter in a remote area miles from civilization. But this morning when I opened the bedroom window I heard a familiar sound—the movement of water as the marshy bog thaws. While it is only early February, I know it’s a sign that we’ve made it through the roughest days. This familiar whisper of running water, a cherished herald of spring from my childhood in Kodiak, now echoes in my new home, reminding me that some cycles remain constant, no matter where life takes us.
