By SCOTT TURNER, The Providence Journal

When my family scooted into a Connecticut mall, I found sanctuary from the sales racks in a ribbon of wet woods that split the property in two.

The sunny, 60-degree morning felt more like spring than a week in January.

From where I stood in a shaded shoreline pool of the East Branch of the Pemigewasset River in North Woodstock, N.H., I could see at least 50 small waterfalls. Cool, refreshing White Mountain water coursed through the river's quartz-ribbed granite. This was natural air conditioning on a hot August afternoon.

A cedar-waxwing whistle heralded the start of the harvest cycle.

The bird's high-pitched call was joined by another and another, seeming to offer a joyous chorus of thanks for the little black oval fruits on the Autumnalis cherry trees.

On a spring day, when clouds, sun and a light breeze kissed nascent trees, I sat in an all-day meeting in a windowless basement room.

As I huddled with colleagues to discuss how university faculty, staff and students used the Web, the woman to my left sighed a-near inaudible, "oooh."

If aliens ever visit our planet, the encounter might look like what our family experienced on a recent evening.

My children, Rachel and Noah, shot hoops by the garage, while my wife Karen and I sliced vegetables into a salad. Unexpectedly, Rachel surged through the back door to implore us to step outside. When I asked what was happening, she said, "Please come out and look."

I rediscovered the brilliance, color and passion of spring after nibbling on one of the garlic chives that provide fresh greenery to the garden this time of year.

The mild, scallion-like flavor and smell transported me back to March 1983, when a widowed, dark-eyed, dark-haired Italian immigrant mother of two cooed over me as fervently as an adolescent.

Indoors, I toiled and spun my wheels tiredly as a father and husband.

So, in need of a timeout, I went outside to shovel snow and chop up sidewalk ice.

Then, loosened up and sweaty, I zipped up my jacket and cuddled into the sunny, out-of-the wind corner of the front doorway. I was surrounded by snow, which suddenly seemed to soften the edges of the day.

On the Rhode Island coast our family communed with the berry crop.

Alongside an old garden path, thousands of navy-blue fruit formed the foreground of Virginia creeper vine, morphing five-leaved foliage from green to mauve, purple to red.

Word among kids on the block was that Smiley was so straight and civilized that he would take a bullet for one of us.

Smiley was about 18 when he showed up on our West Bronx street in the summer of 1966. He was uncommonly friendly. That may be why youngsters accepted and looked up to him so readily.

Forty years ago this month, I attended weekday summer camp at Henry Kaufman Campgrounds about 45 minutes north of our West Bronx neighborhood.

There were ball fields and open shelters, a couple of ponds, swimming pools and a forest.