The Weather Today ...
Sunny and warm today. Blue skies. It was downright warm at times.
March. They say it comes in like a lion and leaves like a lamb, but I’m not so sure. March is more like your schizophrenic aunt.
They talked about a blizzard yesterday. The snow started coming down wet and strong at mid-afternoon. It came with strong winds so it came in sideways. The temperature plummeted as the sun went down and there was ice on the path to the greenhouse when I went out there after dinner. I was prepared to stay inside all day today, watching the great flakes fall outside the window. I was gonna start seeds and dust and maybe even read. I went so far as to inventory bread and milk and made sure I had enough kerosene in case I was stuck here for a day or two.
The snow was gone by morning. I went outside to the greenhouse first thing and didn’t even need a jacket. The dogs and the chickens were running around and there were even birds singing. The daffodils mocked me. I set right to work and in the warm sunshine actually managed to get quite a bit done.
But I’ve seen this before. I’ve seen days in the sixties with blue skies where it finally dried out enough to get some work done, and it was gray and cold and miserable the next day. And it stayed that way for a week. And then it will warm up overnight and you start thinking about mowing the grass.
I won’t be fooled anymore. I won’t let myself trust something only to be disappointed. I won’t count on good times and happiness only to have the rug pulled out from under me. Not can I dismiss something as being useless and unhappy, only to have it come back and taunt me with momentary promise. No. I’ve been in too many relationships like that already. And one thing about the weather: you can't tell it to pack its bags and go. You’re stuck with it, ‘til death do you part.
So I’m going to deal with it in the only way I know how: I’m going to pretend like it doesn’t bother me. Bring me sleet and flurries and cold, wet socks. You’re March. You’re supposed to do that. Turn the skies an unbelievable blue and make the grass grow. I won’t expect you to it again. Some months remember to take their medication and their behavior is more predictable, but, let’s face it – they’re boring. How many sunny June days can you put up with before you stagnate? January pretty much delivers what it promises, and when’s the last time anyone wrote a poem about it?
I’ve learned to love you, March, though you delight in breaking my heart.
March. They say it comes in like a lion and leaves like a lamb, but I’m not so sure. March is more like your schizophrenic aunt.
They talked about a blizzard yesterday. The snow started coming down wet and strong at mid-afternoon. It came with strong winds so it came in sideways. The temperature plummeted as the sun went down and there was ice on the path to the greenhouse when I went out there after dinner. I was prepared to stay inside all day today, watching the great flakes fall outside the window. I was gonna start seeds and dust and maybe even read. I went so far as to inventory bread and milk and made sure I had enough kerosene in case I was stuck here for a day or two.
The snow was gone by morning. I went outside to the greenhouse first thing and didn’t even need a jacket. The dogs and the chickens were running around and there were even birds singing. The daffodils mocked me. I set right to work and in the warm sunshine actually managed to get quite a bit done.
But I’ve seen this before. I’ve seen days in the sixties with blue skies where it finally dried out enough to get some work done, and it was gray and cold and miserable the next day. And it stayed that way for a week. And then it will warm up overnight and you start thinking about mowing the grass.
I won’t be fooled anymore. I won’t let myself trust something only to be disappointed. I won’t count on good times and happiness only to have the rug pulled out from under me. Not can I dismiss something as being useless and unhappy, only to have it come back and taunt me with momentary promise. No. I’ve been in too many relationships like that already. And one thing about the weather: you can't tell it to pack its bags and go. You’re stuck with it, ‘til death do you part.
So I’m going to deal with it in the only way I know how: I’m going to pretend like it doesn’t bother me. Bring me sleet and flurries and cold, wet socks. You’re March. You’re supposed to do that. Turn the skies an unbelievable blue and make the grass grow. I won’t expect you to it again. Some months remember to take their medication and their behavior is more predictable, but, let’s face it – they’re boring. How many sunny June days can you put up with before you stagnate? January pretty much delivers what it promises, and when’s the last time anyone wrote a poem about it?
I’ve learned to love you, March, though you delight in breaking my heart.
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