Mornings are the best!
Even when it’s so cold out the birds’ whistles and peeps sound as wheezy as kazoo music.
Even when it’s so cold the leaves of the long-suffering rhododendrons are needle-thin, shrunk down, as I imagine, to reduce the surface area exposed to these frigid winds.
Because there are winds all right, and my God are they frigid.
Most years by the end of February, even here in the provinces north of Boston, fat-hipped geese have begun waddling around like they own the place. Crocuses have begun poking their small praying hands up through the soil, even if the soil still rests under a mantle of snow — though these last weeks you wouldn’t call it snow even; it’s rock-solid ice, with the last day’s snow-dusting it over it.
Nature sprinkles a little snow every 48 hours the way county folks once scattered corn meal on dance floors: so you could glide more. Last night I ‘glided’ under a parked car while trying to billygoat may way onto the open road and nearly snapped tibia and fibula both, like a couple of chicken bones.
Where is spring? Where oh where are even the signs of spring? We can’t glimpse it even on the far horizon.
It’s 8:15 already two hours after sun-up. I need to work on next week’s column, vacuum four rooms, quickly change the batteries in the two smoke detectors that I can’t actually reach, then go out and buy groceries, a decent bedspread and six pillowcases, all before I see the bodywork Pilates wizard who is helping me strengthen my messed-up back. And all before noon when a whole other list of tasks loom.
I love to see that lady wizard. And what’s more fun than buying bed linens? But with temps like these I’d like it better if I could do all the outdoors stuff WITHOUT ACTUALLY LEAVING THE HOUSE.