March at the country house

Rotten eggs, no milk—it must be March at the country house. Yogurt will do for breakfast—it expired in February, but what can a few weeks do to yogurt?

Snow yields to mud, revealing the undone tasks of autumn. A wheelbarrow leans against a tree. It would still look new if it had spent the winter in the shed. An absurdly pink pool toy peeks through its snowy frock, shaming me.

Meanwhile, the river rises and March rain falls. City friends send alarming emails predicting fouled reservoirs from upstate gas drilling. I pour drinking water from a carton marked “Fox Ledge” because the local stuff smells bad. I consider importing tap water from Manhattan in small batches to offer at summer pot-lucks, while it’s still good.

Thoughts swirl around garden plans, new water features, gathering river stones for a wall in the yoga room. But outdoor work will have to wait for March to leave. There are still many undone indoor projects that my imagination had me completing in the punctuations of winter weekends. Like stripping the stairs of adhesive gunk left from a 30-year-old flood-damaged carpet and installing the tile floor trim that the local installer chose not to finish. When asked when he thought he could find the time, he replied “Oh, I can’t see when I can get around to that.” Now, I see his point—hardly worth the effort of mixing up the thin-set—except when its imperfection robs me of the unfettered pleasure of a restored family room that was once four feet deep in river mud.

Meanwhile, the river rises, the rain persists. The waterfall on Peggy Runway sounds like the freight train that rumbles through Narrowsburg in the middle of the night sometimes. A March thaw has set her free and she crashes and thunders down the steep hillside to join the Delaware in its swelling. Her “awesome” power defies the current usage of the word.

Local eagles are busy at their nests. Their attempts at renovation mirror my own, except that they are more diligent. They are sure to have young ones to house this summer, and they will need a sturdy nest. My guests would come with or without my efforts, happy to laze by the river or steep in a hot tub under the stars.

But no one comes to the country house in March, when brown is the prevailing hue of bark and mud, rising river, leaf mat. February leaves us too distracted to think of inviting anyone. It’s a good thing, too, since cobwebs fill the corners and our meager supply of firewood is exhausted.

We check the reservoir levels as often as our bank balance this time of year. Their fortunes are often intermingled. The last great destructive flood in this section of the river came when all the reservoirs were full at the beginning of four days of steady rainfall.

The river is traveling fast now. Great bergs stand fast against its menacing tide. They must be as deep as the river to withstand its driving current now—meaning they are 20 feet thick, at least. The water travels upstream and downstream, like a two-lane highway, propelled by the swirling eddy currents. A bright yellow beach ball is the only visual relief from the steady brown and white procession of muddy water and ice. It has escaped from someone else’s undone clean-up chores, reminding me of the fluorescent pink pool toy stranded on my deck.

Above the tree line the sky is a four-layer cake of cloud in various shades of white and gray. We have watched the cycle of freeze and thaw many times this winter, and before. It will not freeze again this season. Spring is coming. The river will yield to summer pleasures before long. Until then, what plans does it have for my renovations next year, I wonder?

- Cass Collins