My discipline wanes with the melting snow. In March cross-country skiing is a treat. In April bundling up is too much of a hassle.
The first weekend of April was painfully beautiful. All of a sudden the sky, buildings, boxcars on the passing train, everything that looks so flat in the winter, when we are the filling in a gray sandwich of sky and clouds, dazzled. Even the muddy ground appeared vibrant. All this color upstaged the thrill of going outside without a down vest and mittens. My thawing toes, however, were notable. On days like this, a flatlander can’t help but expect a normal spring.
For me, normal lies (not so far) south of the Mason Dixon line. Down there puffy fruit trees bloom overnight. They capture one’s attention until the rest of the landscape turns green. While the flora struts its stuff, the temperature winds lazily upward. July will bring swampy humidity, but May is heaven so who cares?
Today’s slush-storm is a rude reality check. Up here, far closer to Canada than any outpost of the confederacy, spring would be a euphemism for the stretch between winter and summer. Would be if anyone ever bothered to use the word. Instead they call it like it is, mud season. Maybe it’s a survival technique ---don’t want to get one’s hopes up for nothing. Maybe it’s a warning—flatlanders beware: you’re in for a rough few months. Whatever the origin, one thing is for sure: every mud season I witness makes winter seem better and better.
