A date printed on the calendar denotes the start of each new season. But apparently the Mother Nature that rules this part of the country can’t read. Summer always sets in before its assigned date. So does fall. Winter steps on the heel of autumn every single year, burying us in snow well before December 21st. But spring? Not so with spring. She’s late. Always late.
Ah but…what was it we were taught in junior high? Never say always, and never say never for that matter. This year spring is upon us in early March. Is she here in earnest? We can only hope. Crocuses in bloom, daffodils boasting fat buds, grass greening up, and thermometers climbing toward 70 — all indicate, yes. If you’re an onion setter, you better get at it.
Today I plan to put the skis away. They lean cock-eyed, both skis and poles, against the house all winter long, sort of planted in the flower bed outside the door. Usually they’re standing in white fluffy stuff, but for weeks now they’ve been sinking into soft dirt, remains of last year’s mulch. And I’m wondering if there might be a regulation against letting flowers grow up between your ski poles. Should be. Just in case, I’ll remedy that today.