Spring in New England is like witnessing a miracle from heaven as it pours its love down upon the earth.

The times have changed, but spring has stayed steadfast in its ability to send hope to a weary planet. Growing up on Fitchville Road in Bozrah during the 1950’s was a glorious time to witness the miracle of spring.

My mother would be the first to point out the yellow daffodils with heads held so high. She would exclaim with excitement, “Look…it’s as though they are giving thanks to the creator above!”

Then, as if by magic, the grass grew green and playful crocuses arranged themselves in rows of pink and purple. Robin redbreasts appeared first, looking for nest material while a brown worm dangled from her mouth. Others quickly followed.

The friendly, black-capped chickadee arrived with relatives and friends singing a sweet song of hope, along with the red-winged blackbird who perched himself on the highest tree and sang a sweet melody.

Nearby, a nuthatcher paid no heed. It walked upside down on a tree looking for insects.

When a soft spring rain fell across the pond belonging to Gus Lorentz, the ferns gently swayed and the pungent skunk cabbage spread its leaves. Old Mr. Snapping Turtle with his battered shell peeked out of the water and grinned a crooked smile alarming Mama Duck to instruct her chicks to follow close.

Shaking off rain droplets in the midst of flight, a beautiful kingfisher glided across the pond before rising high in the air carrying a small fish inside its mouth.

Overlooking the pond, my mother and Anna Lorentz sat by the clothesline in silence, breathing in the fresh scent of clean sheets and pillowcases waving in the wind. Both have lived on Fitchville Road for many years, yet, never tired of seeing the majesty of spring.

Breaking the silence, my mother spoke first.

“Anna, our days come and go. But I never tire of watching the arrival of spring. I believe spring is what God’s soul looks like.”

The silence did not last very long. Neighborhood children appeared by the pond in search of polliwogs and small creatures that lived beneath the rocks. One thing led to another, and soon shoes were removed as several children waded in the water.

In the evening, the men came home from work and soon the sweet smell of cut grass filled the air. Gus, who was standing on the hillside overlooking his pond, lifted his nose high.

“They should bottle that smell and sell it,” he said with delight. “There is no finer perfume in the world than fresh-cut grass.”

After dinner the sky turned midnight blue and the stars dazzled like diamonds. Neighbors sat in lawn chairs to listen to the peepers and bullfrogs serenading the night. Children played hide and seek in the moonlight and giggled to think that the moon was made of cheese.

The men discussed machines, while the women spoke of new recipes and children.

Later that night, when the adults were sleeping and I was tucked into bed, I sat up and looked out my window. Even as a child, I knew this was the most beautiful time in my life, for never again would I hear those sounds or see those sights in the same way as tonight, for childhood is like spring. It’s magic!

Happy spring…

Concetta Falcone-Codding is a 1971 graduate of the Norwich Free Academy and is the author of “The Lonely Nest.” You can contact Concetta at concettafalconecodding1@gmail.com.