April in the Midwest

April in the Midwest

If you live in the Midwest, you’ve probably been rejoicing in spring—and perhaps cursing her too.

We’ve learned never to trust April. If you do, you’ll be made a fool of. So far, spring 2026 has been a wild ride. One day, we’re given the gift of temps in the 70s, the kind of clouds you see in children’s books, and grass the same color as the crayon named after it. The following day, baseball-sized hail ruins your friend's car and strips the siding off your favorite coffee shop. Worse, a tornado levels barns and a house in a nearby town.

The long-awaited spring in Wisconsin is glorious one second and terrifying the next. But Midwestern folks are tough, especially if we’ve lived here since birth and have borne witness to spring's many moods. More moods than Sybil, a mood ring, or my cat, Leo.

I often wonder if the calm, sunny April days are a test to see if we’re paying attention. If we spend the day outside grooming our gardens, mucking out the Goat Hall, or picking up the thousand branches and sticks from recent storms, do we notice the weather, the sky, the fact that we’re not wearing jackets, and that all is one—us and the earth? Do we remember to say Thank you and Wow at all that beauty?

If not, when the very next day has those of us without garages throwing quilts over our cars for protection, and others hiding in our basements during tornado warnings, do we stop and think about the gift the day before was?

Up and down goes the temperature, sometimes as much as a 40-degree leap from one day to the next. A blizzard conceals the roads and buries us in eight inches of new snow—and two days later, there’s no snow left and a fog that looks like we’re living next to the sea in Maine.

This morning, Dane and I knew there’d be storms coming our way later in the afternoon, so we headed out early to Duck Egg County Forest with the dogs. Our goal was to enjoy springtime in the Midwest while we could. After all, Dane had already helped his eighth painted turtle cross Highway 131, and there’s hardly a greater sign of spring than turtles!

At Duck Egg, we encountered clusters of Dutchman’s breeches, clumps of spring beauties, a carpet of white anemones covering the forest floor, and perfect bloodroots (whose name I whisper like a prayer), along with young hairy fiddleheads, mayapples, and the baby stems of bluebells. We also saw bluebirds, robins, Canada geese, and swans.

We stopped to admire a brightly colored garter snake, paid our respect to a little brown snake, and watched for foxes and their kits. We hoped to see the beaver who, last year, slapped her mighty tail over and over again, warning us to stay away. We stood on the bank of the pond, eyes widened at each slap, reassuring her, “We’ll stay right here. You're okay.”

Near the dam, the rippling of creek water and the raucous singing of tree frogs and spring peepers were overwhelming. If we could breathe in those sounds, we’d have an eternal spring inside us.

Now, at home, we’re hunkering down for what the weather folks are calling severe thunderstorms with chances of hail and a tornado. Big, slow drops of rain were already falling a few minutes ago when I was out in the backyard, counting my ducks and geese and trying to get Louisa and the goats back into their pen.

Not even a week ago, they were traumatized by a tree that fell during a nighttime storm and landed in front of the Goat Palace door. Dane was using the chainsaw to move it when we heard a loud crack, and another tree on the hill behind us fell.

We know we’ve lucked out. The ice storm that caused major damage to our neighbors’ trees on the ridgetop didn’t touch us here in the valley. The hail storm that left my friend's car looking like a demolition derby survivor didn’t make its way here either. But the horrendous rains have pushed our fence to the breaking point and widened the creek out back with debris.

Who knows what will happen tonight? Whose home will suffer damage—or worse, who will be hurt? Spring in the Midwest seems crazier each year as global warming becomes more apparent.

Anyone’s guess is as good as the weather forecast here in April. We just hang on, batten down the hatches, watch out for our neighbors, and remember to say Wow and Thank you on those days we can.