The first sign that spring is on the verge of being sprung has finally presented itself to me. I have spotted the Girl Scouts of America selling their evil wares at my park and ride. Aren’t we supposed to pack on the fat before winter commences? Perhaps a change in the choice of season during which their evil deeds are put into practice needs to be suggested to these minions of the Simple Sugar Devil.
Other signs have made their way past my winter hazed peripheral as well. For instance, it is becoming closer to daylight when I leave the house in the morning. I am a true believer in Seasonal Affective Disorder; having purchased an alarm clock that simulates the sunrise for me every morning. Encountering the sight of that big ball of gas at 6:30 AM elicits true joy from me the most of all.
The many songbirds that occupy our neighborhood are starting to flit back in so that I am confident enough to add “wild bird seed” to my grocery list. By the time they had vacated our region for warmer climes, they seemed to thoroughly enjoy the smorgasbord of seed that I provided to them; so much so that it was hard to keep the feeders filled to their satisfaction. They are voracious, those birds – but they better be warned. Another first sign of spring is Hobbes dragging an avian carcass to our doorstep.
My first winter here started in what others in the nation call “autumn”. October 2003 brought the bitter cold that lasted through to May of 2004. Having finally succumbed to the idea that becoming snow blind is just another phase of extreme weather acceptance here in Minnesota, the arrival of May brought another color to the fore: brown. To be specific: mud brown.
Everywhere.
This year, the color brown has risen to the surface ahead of schedule. My view, with its dazzling blue sky, is juxtaposed against the surface of our thawing mucky earth and barren trees. The promise of green exists in the appearance of buds on these trees, also early this year. Despite the evidence of this climate shift, which might ordinarily raise the environmentally conscious hairs on my neck, I am riveted to the weather man in the morning.
Today: 46 degrees Fahrenheit.
Sunset this evening: 6:12 PM.
And on my calendar, I can envision the change that will bring these rolling hills of farmland and pasture to life.
Number of days until the first day of spring: 11.
Number of days until Daylight Saving Time: 24.
And in my closet, as I stare at the layers of Gortex and fleece, I can envision them packed away and replaced by light jackets or sweaters. I am poised over my sandals, I am motivated by the possibility of shorts, I am inspired by the truth of the upcoming season when all that has been hidden from our eyes will be revealed in a form of newness that only Mother Nature can deliver.
Take your own temperature. Perhaps you have a fever as well that can only be described with the word “spring”.
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Spring is teasing us in the Pacific Northwest. Yes, the buds are on the trees, daffodils are blooming, and a few other early flowers, but it is so cold that the constant threat of a killing frost is always near. Will I make it to the Tulip festival this year? Will I ever make it to the Tulip festival? Will I move from here and say to myself, "Man, I sure do wish I would have gone to the Tulip festival just once." A friend and I went last year and when we reached the tulip fields, there were no flowers. It was all over. They had bloomed early that year, but not this year. My neighbor wanted to borrow our lawnmower to cut her grass. I said, "Is the ground dry enough to mow yet?" She said her yard was dry enough, but I said mine wasn't. You know how it is.
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