Uncle

Ok weather, you win.

(There's the gate, where's the Garden?)

I’ve tried complaining about you. That hasn’t worked. Oh, sure, while there is a certain satisfaction to be gained from a good kvetch, over time it loses its cathartic properties and just becomes “same song, second verse,” yada, yada, yada, yawn.

I’ve tried ignoring you. Don’t give the snow any attention and it will get bored by non-attention and wander off. Right. That works so well. NOT.

Some people, in what I hope is an attempt to cheer me up---no matter how misguided the approach---will tell me “Don’t worry, it’s still Winter after all. It’s not Spring for X amount of days!” I, of course, take offense to that approach for several reasons. 1) This time of year is NOT winter. It is Early Spring, Spring’s Pre-Season. Time for the weather to practice getting its Spring on. And everyone knows you warm up for Spring BY WARMING UP. Stop snowing already! And 2) don’t use X as a stand in for numbers when you know full well I’ve had to kiss and make up with Math and now can’t even make a math hating joke to cheer myself up. That’s just cruel. No--- it’s cold.  

Sacrifice to the god of Winter

I’ve tried using homemade pagan rituals against you. In a fit of pique one day I took my left-over Christmas Poinsettias and stuck them out in the snow, hoping their demise would appease the god of Winter---who shall remain nameless because I didn’t pay attention in Mythology class, although I do remember Persephone is the goddess of Spring and was in need of a good restraining order six months of the year.

Where was I?

Anger? Check. Denial? Check. Bargaining? Check.

That brings me to my last line of defense---Acceptance. Ok, weather, you win. Look how pretty the snow is, so clean, and white and fluffy! No grass to mow, no flowers to water! “I love my comfy sweater, how cute are these boots?” (I think I stole that last line from an old Gap commercial, I don’t know, I have cabin fever, it’s not my fault, I’ve overdosed on hot chocolate.)

Uncle, already weather. 

I. 

Give. 

Up.

Note to Self

Welcome to March, the Official Month of Spring. You may not remember Spring, but I hear that it’s this wonderful season of color and blooms; green grass, delicate pink blossoms, yellow bursts of dandelions. The sun is rumored to come out, its warmth causing leaves to unfurl and winter gear to be packed away. In Spring, THE SNOW STOPS FALLING.

That’s right, I said it---two four-letter “S” words back to back—SNOW and STOP. Hold on to your hats because I’m about to use a whole lot of other “S” words.

In Spring, when the snow stops you can put away the shovels and the sidewalk salt---Spring is more the season for sidewalk chalk.

Objects in photo not to scale

In Spring, you no longer have to grab a broom and trudge out to your satellite dish to sweep it clear of snow and ice, remembering only AFTER you’ve climbed the ladder that putting the ladder directly UNDER the satellite will garner you a face full of said snow. The snow had been so deep from previous snow falls that I could climb up on a snow bank and reach the dish, all the while keeping clear of the cascading result of my labors. SIGH. I’ll admit that I was annoyed enough by the latest snow fall that I didn’t even move when the satellite snow started falling in my face---I just kept sweeping...and, perhaps, swearing...stupid dang snow anyway!

In Spring, driving becomes a lot more fun---a lot less “exciting” perhaps, but certainly more enjoyable. Less slipping, less sliding, less squeezing of the steering wheel.

So let’s recap: Spring equals less shoveling, more sidewalk. More sun, less slipping. It is possible that Spring is less entertaining for my neighbors. After all, there’s less opportunity for me to get stuck in my driveway, fall on my fanny, spray myself in the face with hot pink spray paint, and give myself a facewash with satellite snow---a great percentage of these activities accomplished while wearing a bathrobe--Spring also equals less side show.

SWELL!

The Dream

I heard your voice calling my name and it pulled me from a sound sleep and deposited me back in the waking world with a thump, not unlike a gasping fish dumped on the deck of a boat, gills straining.

You called my name. Not my given name that the world knows me by, but by my secret name. Mom, pronounced Mwaahm, in that way that only our own children can call us, name and need in one. "Mwaahm," and so I abandoned sleep, left my warm bed and hurried to the front door and unlocked it.

You were not there of course. You do not need me like that anymore. My work there is done, my role now more ceremonial, the name - an honoraria of the past.

I stood in the doorway, looking out into the darkness of the pre-dawn hours, trying to understand how this had all happened. You called me, I heard your voice, full of need of me, a touch of impatience that often accompanies the requests---demands, really—of all children, even our older children. Adult now, that voice--- yet somehow wrapped in the echo of infant past. I could hear your voice plainly, knew immediately which of my children it was that had required me. I heard your voice, muffled a bit from calling me through the thick walls and locked doors of time, but heard clearly; nuanced and immediately understood.

Where did you go? Where is the tiny infant, the curly-headed toddler, the little boy who once told me after a good night ritual, “When we kiss, it makes a sound like music,” where is that child?

My heart thumping from the adrenalin rush that propelled me from sleep to response; I return to bed. But not to sleep, merely lying there, waiting for the clock to move, waiting for daylight. Waiting for it to become a reasonable time to text you, to say good morning. Waiting to make contact, playing off my deep need to know you are all right, ‘Just wanted to check in,” I’ll say to the man who is my son. Perhaps this all seems silly to you. Not yet a father yourself, you don’t speak the same language I do. You do not yet live in the Land of Parenthood, your passport bears no stamps; your heart, no scars.

 Your time in the trenches will come. You will be pulled from sleep to answer a call. A small voice will demand water, a cry will come for comfort, and you will put aside your own needs, your own comfort, to answer.

 It will be the best job you ever have, answering that call in the night-- even if it only turns out to be a dream.

By the Letter S

Look! See the green?

Yesterday, the sun was out, the breeze was mild---actually, the breeze had moments when it wasn’t mild, it was flat-out WARM. That combination, working together, was so powerful that the snow that has covered my yard since late November actually began to melt away.

Let that sink in for a moment, savor it. The snow, MELTING. Grass, I have GREEN grass under all that snow. Who knew?! It is a marvel.

Snow, as you are probably aware, is a four letter word, the “S” word, if you will. I’m not completely anti-snow, I favor snow---in its proper place (the mountains) at the proper time (yay for a white Christmas!) and in the proper amounts (enough to cover my grass, but not enough that I need to shovel it out of my drive way.) Clearly, this year the snowfall was out of compliance with these very reasonable guidelines. I haven’t seen the grass in my back yard since last year; December 3 to be exact. And in my backyard I still have a solid sheet of white, the sun has yet to work its magic back there.

Remember Summer?
Yeah, me either...

The sun has encouraged my snow drops to finally poke their little tender blooms above the earth and I’m happily looking on line for bare root trees and in seed catalogues for my next new favorite plant. The sunshine grows optimism in my soul.

Tra-la-lah, all is coming up---well, eventually—roses. That is until I look at the weather app on my phone to see how long this weather will last...

Snowflakes. In the forecast.

Four letter S-word, four letter S-word, four letter S-word.

Here’s another four letter S-word for you, Mother Nature:

15 inches....

S T O P.

Math Apology

I owe Math an apology.

Math has never been my native tongue, and---tongue in cheek---I have, for years, mocked math; laughing at the punch line “how many pancakes will fit on a roof?” And “Then the devil said, ‘Let’s put the alphabet in Math!’” All very fine jokes, all very funny. (As long as you remember to carry the one.)

But--turns out--Math is important. Math is found in Poetry and in Art; in meter, in symmetry and proportion. Math has its own beautiful language— “algorithm” for example: “a procedure or formula for solving a problem.” Who wouldn’t want a problem solving formula? A Formula 410, if you will. I’ll take a case, please.

Words have always been my preferred language. And I lift my words now, in support of Math.  And History. And Music and Art and Science; Science that can explain to us some of the beauty and mystery of life. Science does not take away the mystery of Creation, it enhances our appreciation of its miracle. Science matters.

Math matters. History matters. Music matters. Art matters. Words matter. Education matters.

Today I lift my words in appreciation of education---yes, even you, Algebra. And I will vote YES for these things; YES for Education, YES for schools. Because schools matter. Children matter.

Dear Math, I hope you can forgive me. I’d like to be friends. I’m voting YES.