Yesterday morning it snowed. Not unusual for May in Ely. This morning when I woke at 5:15 a.m. it was snowing and blowing outside in earnest. After I showered, I could see that everything was covered in snow and it was still snowing. Not unusual for the first week of May in Ely.
The tuxedo cat wanted out into his yard, despite the obvious blowing of the wind and sleet against the storm door causing it to vibrate against its frame. He was undeterred by the snow that covered the porch and the stairs. His warm feet left hollow green footprints across the yard as he lifted one foot cautiously and lightly put another down in a trot that took him towards the garden in search of dry ground. He couldn’t find any.
In a very short time he was pawing against that same storm door for me to let him in. His previous tracks were covered with a thin blanket of white.
By the time I walked to work later in the morning, everything was melted on roofs, sidewalks, streets and flower beds. There was still a trace of frozen moisture in the air. It was barely above 30 degrees. Not unusual for a May morning in Ely.
After work I was drawn from my home on my walk by the sound of spring. The telltale heart of spring in Ely. The sounds of a bat against a ball. The metallic ting rising up and over the baseball diamond -- not unlike the notes that the blackbirds have been shrilly screeching from my backyard for the last three weeks. Not unlike, but with a slightly different pitch and of course, louder, able to be heard unmistakably from blocks away.
Thankfully not unusual for a May afternoon in Ely.
I forget each spring during the excitement for ice out, fishing opener and Mother’s Day, how much I miss the sights, sounds and hotdogs of baseball. Not just baseball on television, but live baseball. Baseball practice, Little League practice, coach pitch, tee ball to come.
The rake on the infield, sweeping off the bases, the imperfect science of Diamond Dust after too much rain (too much rain that followed nowhere near enough rain), the cuts and strips of the grass in the outfield after a fresh pass of the mower.
The too-cold feel of the bleachers through blue jeans and of course, the smack of the ball in a leather glove. Catch with one of my kids. Sweat beading up under the brim of a good fitting cap shading your eyes from the new and suddenly much stronger sun in the afternoon sky. So far elusive this May in Ely, Minnesota.
The ball players were swinging those bats though and under the tall pines on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Pattison, I stopped to admire some of those swings. I stopped to listen to the sound of the bat reach me just before I saw that bat strike the white ball. I stopped, standing on a layer of reddish-brown pine needles instead of white snowflakes, to soak in just a little bit of summer through my hoodie and my fleece as I wore a stocking cap.
It was after all, only 38 degrees. No need to tell the players in short pants that. I already knew that they couldn’t feel it like I could and even if they did, they are too young for it to matter. They hadn’t forgotten about the sound their bat was making either, they had heard it in their dreams, all winter long.
