I looked outside first thing this morning. Bad idea. We are a week into April and there’s snow on the ground. It’s 30 degrees and the heater came on frequently during the night. Do I have it wrong? Isn’t it Spring?
I try to limit how the weather affects me and I fail and fail. I’m a Riviera type person thinking I have bad karma to be living in Ohio where the weather is even more moody than I. I need a perpetually sunny clime, with beautiful blue sky and warm temperatures. I’m not asking for Camelot. I just want the seasons I recall from childhood. Well. Maybe what I want, really, are respites from adulthood.
When I was a kid, weather was what it was. I rolled with it. Winter was winter, with heavy snows to make the sled worth trudging up the hill for. Spring was gentle rain, chill winds with an undertone of velvet warmth, when roller skating meant my bare knees would get chapped, and my cheeks ditto, as I faced into the wind and chose my sidewalks for smooth cement. Kite flying was anticipated all winter, when finally winds aloft made my box kite soar. Summer brought fire crackers, lady bugs, fireflies, running barefoot through alfalfa, mumblety peg with my brother and his friends. Watermelon and home made root beer, peach ice cream made right beneath me as I sat on the maker as Dad cranked and cranked.
Neighborhood kids came running with spoons, knowing we’d lick the bucket clean likety split. Everyone got a small share of satisfaction out under the mighty oaks that flanked our lawn.
Snow beyond the dictated bounds of seasons frustrates me. By now, seven decades later, you’d think I would have adjusted. No. It’s the rhythm I want. That’s what’s missing.
The birds at the feeder agree with me.