(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on March 8, 2012, in my “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)
There are dangers in hoping for an early spring, chief among them the fact that it might actually occur. While it’s perfectly natural to wish for the life-giving renewal promised by this change of season, some things just need to stay dead—and like zombies, no one’s going to rest easy until they do.
By the time President’s Day comes around, I’m usually done with winter. I’m sick of shoveling snow and peeling my frozen wipers off the windshield each morning. There’s something about going to work before the sun comes up, only to drive home from work in more darkness, that screams “Seasonal affective disorder!” The short days and long nights make me feel as if work is the only thing I have time to do. That, and watch The Housewives of Orange County—both of which are depressing upon further reflection.
That’s why I greet each February day above 50 degrees like a long-lost friend. Unfortunately, when I’m under the sway of the sunshine streaming through my office window, I forget all the things I never liked about that long-lost friend, like why that friend was “lost” to begin with. Let’s face it—we live in Connecticut, and we get to enjoy the full range of the four seasons. (Those who don’t tend to winter in Florida until the brutal humidity of June sends them scurrying back to us.) The gift of this is that we are never more than a few months away from starting the next season.
People who live in consistent climates will never know the joys of busting out the short-sleeved shirts and swimming trunks for the first time in months, nor will they revel in the newfound warmth of a sweatshirt pulled out of the attic as the first fallen leaves crunch under their feet. They will never experience the absurdity that finds someone scrambling for a jacket to escape the chill in autumn when the thermometer drops to 60, only to see that same person toss away that jacket to “enjoy the fresh air” the first time it rises to 60 in the spring. We are a population with multiple personalities—personalities we change along with the clothes we pull out of mothballs. Our seasonal short-term memory allows us to be surprised and delighted at each change in the weather even as we forget the negatives that accompany them.
I forget that spring is rainy, for instance. Really, really rainy. By mid-April, I find myself longing for the calming effect of snowfall as opposed to the withering fear about whether my gutters will hold up under the next downpour. While we can simply brush the snow off our coats, rain soaks us like drowned rats—there’s no choice but to peel off the layers and hope they dry before summer. In the words of poet E.E. Cummings, spring is “mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.
Gardeners understand this best of all. We study the Farmer’s Almanac for months, planning for the earliest possible moment to plant the seedlings we’ve nurtured all winter in the kitchen window. Understandably, we live in healthy fear of the killing frost that accompanies false hope. We remember the glistening sheen of ice atop fragile bulbs, a botanical infanticide that results in barren, brown patches that blight our gardens until the summer plantings take hold. Now, before the lilies get a chance to poke through the ground in their leafy show of rebirth, we shovel some extra snow on the ground where they lie dormant, reminding them that winter’s still here.
It’s in the space between these seasons, this perennial purgatory, where the real danger lies sleeping. Lulled into a false sense of security, it’s easy to react to the sun on our faces by opening up the storm windows or burying the scarf and gloves in the back of the closet. Kids put away their sleds just as their parents start to sign up for morning Zumba classes, both secure in the knowledge that school cancellations are no longer an issue. All too soon, however, we find ourselves regretting the decisions that led us to put the patio furniture out or hold off on that last oil delivery for the furnace. Spring is a liar—look no further than last year’s snowfall on March 21, the first day of the season. Dumping the snow out of our loafers while digging the car out of a snowdrift makes it easier to remember what we should never forget: we can’t trust the change in seasons.
Instead, be careful what you wish for, especially if you’re hoping for an early spring. That’s not a long-lost friend walking toward you—it’s a zombie, and sometimes it doesn’t know whether it’s dead or alive. Keep your jackets on and your shovels handy.
