Maybe I’m being silly for saying this, but I’m very disappointed in this winter’s weather. I look out the window, and I see sunshine, a clear blue sky, and what appears to be a fine spring day. There’s just one problem: it’s not spring yet. Not by my calendar, anyway. Spring is supposed to arrive on or near March 21 in central Illinois. In grade school we had a calendar in our classroom with a picture of rain in March, wind in April, then flowers in May; and that is still how I think it should be.
January, my birth month, is supposed to be full of snow, cold wind, blizzards, sledding, ice skating, etc., but it reached 60 degrees Fahrenheit on my birthday this year. February is supposed to be more of the same—snow, ice and a fierce north wind from Canada—with a slightly warmer day (just above freezing temperatures) thrown in every once in a while.
So…you’ll have to forgive me if you’re one of those people who would be happy if it were today’s balmy 50 degrees year ‘round. I cannot agree. Part of the charm of continental weather is change; I enjoy each season’s offerings. I barbecue, swim, sweat and swat mosquitoes in summer; I go on hikes and crunch fallen leaves and sneeze pollen dust in autumn; I complain about the cold, the snow, the five extra minutes it takes to get dressed in the morning, and yet I get bundled up to go sledding with my son in the winter; I wipe mud off my shoes and watch for flowers pushing up to the surface in spring. There’s something really satisfying about having endured the worst and the best of each season, and the changes in the weather mark time for me. This winter seems to have disappeared into thin air.
Maybe I’ll go plant some flowers.