I love winter. More accurately, I should say that I enjoy winter. I enjoy watching the gray clouds move in over the fields. I enjoy watching the wind pick up and move the branches as it blows through the trees. I enjoy waiting in anticipation for the first small snowflakes to start swirling down from the sky.
But, really? It’s April first and the damn grass needs to start turning green already.
I will own up to the fact that I am not a hearty, outdoor winter person. My days of downhill skiing are most definitely over. I may hop a saucer sled for a disastrous run on occasion, however, I will not be snowboarding. Which leads me to the reason that I felt obligated to write about something as cliché as the weather.
Being born, raised and living my life entirely in the Midwest, I have a fond appreciation for the changes in seasons. The first sight of a crocus peeking its head through the snow, the boisterous thunderstorms that come to clean the earth, the hot summer sun warming the sidewalks until your bare feet burn, and the inevitable turning of the leaves that provide a unique afghan of rich color to consider.
What I do not appreciate is my instinct to buy an entire carload of not-ready plants to plop in the ground before their time. When I wake up and see the sun shining, I feel compelled to run to the nearest garden store and buy flowers, soil, and fertilizer. As soon as I slide out of my car and into reality, I’m wishing that I had worn my heavy coat. The full length one with the hood. Long underwear wouldn’t have hurt either.
I’ve been told that patience is a virtue. It’s pretty clear that I have great difficulty exhibiting any virtue at this time of year when all I want to do is dig my hands into the dirt, place some impatiens (oh, the irony) into the hole, and cover its roots with enriched soil. There is something restorative about planting.
It is still April and the grass is a sick, sleepy, yellow and the tall towering birch and ash trees are naked.
It’s just not working for me.
I think I will consider to move the frost line a bit north so I can help replenish my world of its color. As long as I’m at it, I might need to ask for some luck with some warm weather. Maybe I should just go to the nearest big box store, load a cart full of plastic greenery and decorate my lawn like there’s no tomorrow.
Or maybe I’ll just try not to be so pissed at Punxsutawney Phil for being a crappy predictor of spring.