Spring is always such a fickle time. Some days it seems like
Mother Nature doesn’t know what she wants to do. Get on with it, or listen to
old man winter who’s still hollering, “hold your horses boys, I’m not done
yet.” But for old man winter to keep his frigid sting, certain things need to
be in place, but sadly for him those things are all petering out. I’m talking
of subzero temperatures and wind blowing off of the frozen lakes. Too bad, but old
man sun has been warming the earth and melting what’s frozen and putting the
run on winter, albeit, sometimes it’s a slow process.
It’s man who is the impatient one and Mother Nature gets him
going that way by all of these little teasers she hangs out there in late
winter. 70 degrees and ice off the lakes in March. Rhubarb poking its pink
noses out of the ground. There are buds swelling on some plants right now and a
few early ducks quacking in the shallows. Seven thirty at night and its still
light outside. “Shut off the television and those lousy reruns and break out
the rakes and shovel’s Orville, its time. Maybe Mother nature can’t make up her
mind what to do-- but I’ve made up mine.”
You watch the ten o’clock news and that goofy weather man,
who’s about as accurate with his predictions as the Fed is with the stock
market, is mumbling about some polar vortex and using words like straight out
of the arctic and your yelling “Mother shut that damn thing off because that
old fool has no more idea of what’s happening tomorrow then we do.” You go to
bed all upset because that pessimistic prognosticator just wants to make waves
and ruin everybody’s day. You get up at two in the morning for a bathroom break
and peeking over the bathroom shutters, the yard light shows nothing but bare
ground. You snicker to yourself because maybe you were born at night, but it
wasn’t last night and you’ve been around the block enough times to know when
winters finally over. You fall back asleep with a grin on your face, cocky and contented,
just as the first snowflakes fall in the dark.
The next morning your optimistic attitude takes one right in
the solar plexus. The snow shovel which was lying in the yard, is now somewhere
under a foot of snow. The snow blower is dry of gas because you drained it for
the season and used the gas to burn the brush pile. The plow, which takes two
hours to put on the four-wheeler, is wrapped up and now safely stored behind
the garage. The dog won’t go outside and why does she have to add insult to
injury, with that smug look on her face, grinning over the top of her coffee
cup?
It’s called a pout and you’ve used it before but never with
any good results but it’s always been plan B when plan A gets blown out of the
water. It’s somewhere in your
D.N.A where all of your factory settings are at. It’s your default setting, so
there is little you can do about it. Oh’ speaking of water where the hell did
that come from? Drip, drip, drip on the porch floor. Now I have to shovel the
roof off with no shovel. To heck with it I’ll run into town and get a new one.
After all it is spring and they should be on sale. What’s this at the end of
the driveway? That stupid plow came by. So what now, back to the garage? No
wait. I’m stuck. Rats.
No comments:
Post a Comment