Let me add my voice to the growing
symphony of those dissatisfied with how this spring has performed
Now, I've never been one to be fooled
by March. More often than not it's a nasty, sloppy and, worst of
all, windy month. Yet, you could always count on a few days of warm
temperatures and sunny days that gave you false hope that winter was
Not this year. My very scientific
survey (what I saw each day) shows we received a total of seven
minutes of sunshine in March. My survey also showed it rained on 34
out of 31 days. How is that possible? I don't know, but it did.
And to make it worse, last March had a
record setting high temperature every day last year. I don't
remember last March, but apparently it was spectacular.
I knew something was out of whack when
last Sunday, March 31, I realized I hadn't pulled the lawnmower out
of its hiding place yet. Not only had I not removed that beast of
burden from its winter hiding spot, I hadn't really give it any
In years past (and I now have a lot of
years past), yard mowing always started in March. There would be a
few warm days, it would rain and the grass, about 50 different kinds
of it, would shoot a foot high overnight.
Of course, by the time I found time to
mow it, a cold front would have moved in and I'd be riding around
the yard in a big jacket, hunched up against a cold wind while
cursing weather forecaster who said a high of 52 was perfectly normal
and nice for March.
Not everybody made out it out of March
without paying $12 to fill their riding mower with gas. A few people,
including one of our neighbors, decided that not mowing in March was
blasphemy and dragged them out on the last weekend of the month.
Like the protagonist in "Remembrance
of Things Past" being set off by the smell of bread, the smell of
freshly cut grass can send me reeling years into the past.
While I hate winter and fall and barely
tolerate spring, summer is a wonderful time, filled with long
daylight hours, warm weather that doesn't suddenly go away because
some stupid Canadian cold front moved south and the ability to be
outside and not feel like you're being cut in half by a cold wind.
And it also means fresh cut grass. That
smell invades your nose and it's really hard to think anything bad
could happen. The worst is that you're the one doing the mowing,
but even then, once you're done, you get something cold to drink
and you can sit on the porch and smell that grass.
You don't get that experience during
a "bad" March. You instead find yourself plunged back into
December and January, low, dark hanging clouds dogging your every
step, seeing your breath and plotting ways to make weather
forecasters pay, because you know, somehow, they're behind it all.
I know, in two months, perhaps less,
the heat will be so bad that most of us will be complaining we're
dying and what we wouldn't give for a temperature of 65.
Not me. I'm going to laugh at those
people, and when they ask how I can be so cruel, I'll ask them
where were they when March was impossibly cruel and making me wonder
why my accident of birth location couldn't have been even further
They'll then call me some choice
names, question my parentage and say I must be crazy from the heat.
I won't care. It'll be hot, the
days will last forever and I'll be smelling fresh cut grass on a
regular basis. And March will be many, many months in the future.
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