It was April 15, tax day, almost 34 years ago, when my daughter Molly and I hit town. We had just come from Boca Grande, Fla., and it seemed strange to be scratching mosquito bites while wearing woolen mittens.

That first season in the Adirondacks reminded me of David Lynch’s eerie television series, “Twin Peaks.”

We were staying on a mountainside, and at twilight we would hear mysterious hooting sounds in the distance, soon answered from a neighboring slope. This would go on for some time.

People told me — and I believed them — that this was the hoot of the black bear as it came out of hibernation. I have since learned that it is the mating call of the barred owl. “Who cooks for yooou?”

Sometimes we would drive out of town, to Essex or Albany, where we saw butterflies and tulips and blue skies. On one side of the “Welcome to the Adirondack Park” sign it would be about 70 degrees and sunny, and on the other side of the sign the pine trees would be all weighed down with snow and the wind would be howling. Or was it wolves?

Then spring came. The grass turned green and there were carpets here and there of little bluet flowers. Frogs were loud and so were the rivers and brooks. Everywhere birds were on the wing. Also blackflies. I was shocked that such a tiny insect could cause rivulets of blood to run down the nape of my daughter’s neck. At least by this time we were scratching our bug bites without mittens.

What we call a miracle is something so wonderful and awesome, in the true sense of those words, that it is beyond all of our expectations of what is possible.

Easter is the celebration of a miracle.

Spring is miraculous every year to those of us who live in the North Country. Every year I almost lose faith that it will ever come. The days begin to get longer, but still it snows. The birds are going crazy, singing and zooming around. The robins are back, flying fast, parallel to the ground, the way they do in the spring. Later they will act more sedate. The seeds I planted in little containers on the window sill are beginning to sprout. New life. Awesome.

There are times in our lives when we devoutly wish for a miracle. In the long run cynicism doesn’t help.

As Hamlet said, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Which was true, and continues to be true, although in this particular case Hamlet was referring to his father’s ghost.

And then, we can’t talk about spring without bringing up spring cleaning! I really should break down and roll out the vacuum cleaner today. I used to be fond of my little robot vacuum. I was amused by the haphazard way it used to zip around and the way Jupiter the cat stalked it, always keeping a wary distance. Like the dog who chased the school bus, Jupiter wouldn’t have known what to do with it if he caught it. Since I moved into an efficiency apartment — in my case inefficiency apartment would be more accurate — the robot doesn’t have room to navigate. Instead it continually gets bogged down and has to be rescued. Now it is gathering dust under the desk.

I have a perfectly good tank vacuum cleaner, but I prefer a broom. Perhaps I was a witch in a past life. A broom is lighter to lug around, and there is less that can go wrong with it. It’s like the difference between fixing your computer or sharpening a pencil. Also, a new broom sweeps clean.

My feng shui (fong schway) book, however, warns that a new broom will “sweep your luck right out the door.” Another way I sabotage my luck is by keeping a cactus plant in a south-facing window, even though it is in the family section (gua) of the house. Very bad. As bad as leaving the Three Stooges videotape on the windowsill in the wisdom and learning gua.

But who cares? I’m tired of winter, dieting, housework (fang shoe) and their restrictions. I’m busting out.

I’ll probably regret it.

Have a good week.