I am a Leo through and through; hot and sunny is where I shine.
Early spring around these parts still brings bone-deep cold mornings. It’s dark after breakfast. The trees are starting to green up, but brown dominates. Cows steam in the fields, and the creek on my property runs clearer than at any other time of year. And if the sun does shine, it’s usually hand in hand with wind gusts that send you back in the house. This is not the bitter, punishing winter of March, nor is it the mild forgetfulness of May. April in Kentucky is some liminal, in-between space.
You know how therapists teach that healing isn’t linear? Personal growth is a meandering journey with twists, turns, one step forward and cha-cha-cha back, periods of rapid growth, followed by plateaus and setbacks. Progress looks less like a straight diagonal line than a knotted scribble.
That’s April in Kentucky. The weather changes its mind constantly. Expect sun one day and a punishing rain the next. Anyone who’s lived through a full Bluegrass calendar knows that a warmish day in April might just be a tease. The cold doesn’t come and go in a straight line, but circles back, retraces its steps, teases, retreats, then roars again. There is an ancient rhythm to it, known affectionately as the five winters of Kentucky.
Redbud Winter comes first, often in mid-March, just as the redbuds burst into violet flame along the edges of fields and highways. The air warms for a moment, tricking us into sandals and sunglasses. But then comes a cold snap, sharp and sudden.
Dogwood Winter follows soon after, when the dogwood trees open their white, cross-shaped blossoms and another chill sweeps in. The days are longer now, the sun a bit stronger, but winter clings stubbornly to the mornings.
Locust Winter arrives quietly, named after the blooming of the black locust trees, whose sweet white flowers hang like clusters of snow against the green hills. By now, we’re tired of the back-and-forth. We want certainty. We want spring to stay, but the chill comes again.
Blackberry Winter usually falls in May when the blackberry brambles bloom with delicate white flowers. It’s the last true cold spell, and it bites. Farmers know not to plant tender crops until it passes.
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And finally, Whippoorwill Winter, the quietest and least known, comes in late May, just as the mournful song of the whippoorwill echoes through the woods. It’s less a freeze than a sigh of transition before summer fully settles in.
In some parts of Appalachia, they honor a sixth little winter, called Linsey Woolsey Britches, which happens in the foothills, where daylight comes a little later in the day. This is the last time during spring that one would need to don their homespun wool-linen longjohns to complete the morning chores.
Taken together, Kentucky’s five (or six) winters form a spiritual map for how to endure and grow. We learn to be patient and flexible, to dress in layers, to grab the umbrella just in case. To tend the woodpiles and soup pots a while longer. Growth stutters and sways, circles and tests. It asks us to begin again and again, to trust the process even when it feels like we’re going backward.
Because though not much is certain in this world, it’s a promise that spring will eventually come. And eventually stay.
